


Ain't No Better Song In The 'Verse

by glitterandrocketfuel



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Firefly Setting, Captain!Joe, Companion!Pete, Deadly!Andy, F/M, Gadgetguy!Patrick, M/M, Prompt Fic, Space Opera, just for fun, mostly harmless
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-07-11 13:28:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15973277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterandrocketfuel/pseuds/glitterandrocketfuel
Summary: Here's how it is. A captain's goal is to find a crew, find a job, and keep flyin'. Out in the Black, all you got is your crew, your boat, and an endless starfield of possibilities between the worlds in the 'Verse. On the dirtballs, you gotta follow the Rules, whether they're the strict technological structure of the Core planets or the Rim's idea of the law being the quickness of your draw.Here's how it is. A Companion's goal is to keep their clients--keep 'em happy, keep 'em coming back, and keep their secrets. Out in the Black, all you got is your Guild medallion and your talents, both 'Verse-given and Guild House-trained, and an endless star field of possibilities between the worlds in the 'Verse. The only rules are you do whatever it takes to keep your Guild medallion, and you never, under any circumstances, give away your heart.Registered Companion Pete Wentz needs to escape a persistent and powerful client. He follows a siren song to a Firefly-class rust bucket that saves his ass, and a golden-ticket ship's mechanic that just might save his soul.





	1. My Body is an Orphanage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1833outboy (phancon)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phancon/gifts).



> For 1833outboy because of an unfamiliar tumblr prompt. I have no excuse for this and I'm probably going to hell, but the company's good. Usual disclaimers, and if you got here by googling your name, you should know better and for the love of all the Eldritch Horrors, hit the damn Back button.

Here's how it is. A Companion's goal is to keep their clients--keep 'em happy, keep 'em coming back, and keep their secrets. Out in the Black, all you got is your Guild medallion and your talents, both 'Verse-given and Guild House-trained, and an endless star field of possibilities between the worlds in the 'Verse. The only rules are you do whatever it takes to keep your Guild medallion, and you never, under any circumstances, give away your heart.

Pete Wentz, Registered Companion, is not that great at following rules.

Pete Wentz, Registered Companion, stood a glittering jewel in a crown of stars, reflecting the dazzling light of everyone around him who wanted him, and tantalizing those that didn't yet know they wanted him. Kohl ringed his eyes, glitter dancing across his lashes and dusting his skin. His hair was artfully arranged in long bangs from under which he could send playful glances full of promise or smoldering gazes full of perdition. He wore a body-skimming sleeveless shirt with a plunging neckline that showed off the ink on his skin and tight, spangly pants slung low on his hips, ornamented with a studded belt whose paste-jewels matched the cuffs of his boots. Loose, glitter-shot scarves draped his shoulders, hung down his back, and looped around his hips, playing the conceal-and-reveal game that was one half walking dance and one half advertisement.

Shiny, silver, and reflective, Pete Wentz was a mirror throwing back the glory of the important people around him.

No one ever looks at the back of a mirror, though. As long as the gilt ain't scratched, no one can see behind it.

His smile added brilliance to the picture as he was approached by the daughter of a prominent Persephone businessman. Her predatory gaze took him in and spat him right back out when she spotted the medallion resting at his throat that marked him as a Registered Companion and member of the Companions' Guild.

Her gaze dropped. "My apologies, Companion. I didn't mean to stare--"

Pete's grin widened. "No apologies are necessary, Flower. I was watching you, too." He could smell the credits on her, but more importantly, he could scent the streak of secret self-destructive recklessness like pheromones leaking from her. This one would take a dare as good as he could give. He arched an eyebrow. "Dance?" He held out a hand.

She glanced around. "You're not here with--" she licked her lips, "--you're free this evening?"

"I'm _never_ free, darling, but I'm not contracted for the evening. Yet." He dipped his head to send her a smoke-eyed glance through his bangs. "I just arrived on Persephone yesterday. Made landfall on a good feeling about this place, and here you are." He didn't say his good feeling was that Persephone was close enough to the border for him to outrun a vexing bit of aggravation, and far enough away so that his infrequent clients out here would appreciate a good visit from his Ambassadorial self, bringing goodwill and afterglow in his wake. But his regulars, while expressing sincere desire to see him, also expressed sincere regret that their time was otherwise engaged. Pete could have been insulted--after all, the company of a Registered Companion was something you canceled other events for--but his mind turned out possibilities that told him there was more to the story than busy schedules. He just had to wait to see how it played out.

But in the meantime, wait-and-see wouldn't keep him in perfumed silks and eye-kohl.

She blushed as she took his hand. He led her to a corner of the dance floor, enough in view so that she could be admired for her pretty new accessory, but secluded enough so that they could conduct proper business. Pete brightened his smile and led her through a reel. He tilted his head attentively, using his bangs to send one or the other of his innuendo-laden glances as he guided the conversation towards more intimate subjects than the casual gossip of the gala. 

Her cues grew more careless once he talked her down a hall where he could spend half an ear listening to the lounge's occupants discussing Alliance expansion into the Independent territories. That's trouble I want no part of. But he filed away the identities of the gentlemen and ladies in the conversation for later.

"Let's not go any further. I think my father's in there." She shifted away, towards the shadows thrown by the wall sconces and holographic ceiling glittering with stars. "He's always forcing me into these things as if one day, I'll magically decide that _banking_ is more fun than _dancing_."

"Of course not. What a ridiculous notion." He steered her out of the area and into a conversation-pit area. A string quartet played incidental music with slow strings and sultry woodwinds. The shadows shifted in the corners, concealing and revealing couples and trios engaging in intimate activities--mostly under-the-table business dealings. He spotted another Companion and nodded to her, steering his Flower away from her business and into the third room of the evening, a much more lively gathering, with a crooner at the piano, a three-piece backing him up, and champagne fountains overflowing. He presented her with a glass full of bubbly gold and an engaging grin. "I think we'll be safe from any talk of banking here, yes?" He pulled her out onto the dance floor, this time indulging her desire to be the center of attention.

His Flower glanced up at him, catching her lower lip between her teeth. The hungry look was back. Between the champagne, dancing to the driving beat of the music, and the dark, intimate air of sharing sweat with another person, he was ready to get down to business. He flicked the beaded end of one of his scarves out so it wrapped around her shoulders.

He pulled her close in a practiced move (practiced over and over under the tutelage of the dance mistress at his Guild House) that placed their hips in a kind of purgatory between the layers of clothes, the folds of her frock not enough armor to escape his interest, and the fabric of his pants designed to radiate body heat just so. The fine sheen of sweat made her face glow and the light in her eyes told him she'd forgotten just enough of her manners to show herself. "Enjoying yourself?"

She nodded. "So much better than back there." She jerked her head back towards the gala proper.

Her lashes fluttered as she breathed in his subtle cologne. He watched as her features shifted and he knew he had her. He leaned in close, flicking his eyes to the shadows behind the holo-palms and fairy lights where a shrouded figure stepped forward. "I can give you an _entire evening_ of fun."

Her lashes fluttered again. "I--yes."

Out of the shadows materialized a man wearing all black, with piercing eyes and two discreet sheaths at his hips. He nodded to Pete and the young lady, then proffered a data book with a finely-carved wooden cover. "On behalf of the Companions' Guild," he murmured in a soothing voice. "Your thumbprint and credit stick to confirm your identity and the transaction, plus terms of engagement." His gentle expression put the young lady at visible ease, if his sudden appearance had set her tense, but the effect was exactly what Pete asked for. 

"I'll let you review," Pete murmured, his breath ghosting across the shell of her pierced ear. "And just get us some more champagne." Pete stepped away. 

He heard Andy's quiet voice murmuring the last part of the business, the part he didn't like to be there for. "If you're found to be in violation of any of the terms, the Guild will black-mark you and you'll never have the services of a Companion again." Pete reached for two fresh glasses. "And if any harm comes to the Companion without his consent, you won't need to worry about services from _anyone_ again. Are we understood?"

Pete winced. It felt heavy-handed, but Andy had ferreted out more than one closeted risk-taker who hadn't respected the Guild seal he wore at his throat. He lifted the glasses and was about to turn when a dark voice sounded behind him. "Companion. You haven't returned my wave."

Pete was too professional to tense, but he went still, training and habit kicking in as he turned to face the voice's owner. "Island," he said. Dammit, where was Andy when he needed him? "You're quite a ways away from home, aren't you?"

"No place in the 'Verse is too far for me to travel to get something I want." Island's mouth stretched into a grin that held nothing but malice. "Something I've contracted for."

"Sorry," Pete said smoothly, his voice hiding his internal panic, even as his hands started the tiniest of tremors. "I'm someone else's for the evening."

Island's smile turned cold enough to frost the champagne glasses. "If I were you, I'd double-check that. I'll be waiting in the parlor when you've finished with that bit of fluff." His eyes turned hard. "Don't keep me waiting, Companion."

Pete returned to Andy's side, where both he and the lovely young Flower frowned down into the data book. "I don't understand, it's not validating my thumbprint."

Andy tapped the screen a few times. "I'm reading a double booking." He glanced up at Pete. "We don't have you contract--" His voice trailed off when he saw Pete's expression. "What is it?"

"Remember why I hired you?" Pete asked. Andy nodded. "It's here. _He's_ here."

"New plan," Andy declared. He took the young lady by the shoulders. "Sorry about your night, but we'll be needing your access card for the doors now."

The girl's face shifted into panic, then anger. Pete stepped between them. "Hey," he said, tilting up her chin. "No need for that. There's another bid for my attentions tonight. The Cortex system doesn't always know how to handle competing bids correctly. The system is forcing me to contract with him." He used her own words from earlier. "As if I'd _magically decide_ I'd not rather spend time with you."

The words did the trick--Pete was always good with words--and her mouth softened. "I can get you out of here." She lowered her lashes. "Hide you until it's safe?"

Pete awarded her with an intimate smile. "With you?"

She nodded. He and Andy followed her through the halls until they reached a back exit reserved for staff. Pete slipped away with his bodyguard and his Flower, hiding out in her daddy's private skiff while they tried to shake the tail of her bodyguards through the air traffic of Persephone City long enough for Pete to slip away. In the meanwhile, Pete didn't have a contract with her because the system locked up, but that didn't mean she didn't expect something for her troubles. Pete considered himself a Gentleman of Impeccable Regard, and he always paid his debts, whether in credits, or in skin and sweat. 

The passenger seat of the skiff, lushly appointed as it was, was something he hadn't visited since his very first days as a Companion, but his training gave him skills that paid the bills no matter the venue. The banker's daughter twined her arms around his neck and he lowered her to the buttery-soft leather cushions, whispering low-voiced, seductive murmurs into her neck, just below her ear.

Andy, 'Verse bless him, melted into the shadows again when her cries grew breathless, only re-emerging when she went quiet, sleepy and sated by Pete's hands and mouth and body.

"That was no Cortex glitch," Andy murmured. "This is the third time his bid has kept you from contracting."

Pete nodded. He was going to have to address this business sooner or later. "If I can't contract, we don't get paid." He'd lose his Guild membership. A Registered Companion commanded respect, but an _un_ registered Companion was just a whore. He glanced back at the sleeping young lady, limbs splayed and pleased flush still staining her cheeks, and wondered if he weren't already just that. "I need to send a wave to the Guild House."

Andy brought out the data book and Pete spent a moment arranging his bangs back into place. He recorded himself giving a brief outline of the situation and asking the House's help in unlocking his current contract from the database so he could continue doing business, then sent it off. The lag from Persephone to Sihnon was minimal, with the signal boosts, but there were some speed limits that couldn't be crossed.

Gabe's image greeted him in a traditional, formal bow and expression of wishes for Pete's serenity. Even though it was just a recording, Pete found himself returning the gesture. 

"My friend, the Guild is adamant about your voluntary acceptance of this assignment. Mr. Island is a powerful individual in Blue Sun Corporation and he's extended a contract of significant length and exclusivity for your services. You've got two weeks before they expect you. I trust you're enjoying yourself on that Alliance cruise vessel I arranged for you at Eavesdown Docks on Persephone. Send a 'Wish you were here' at the end of your cruise."

Here, Gabe ducked his head. "He wants you, Pete. A Companion always chooses their clients but, well--you know." Gabe glanced to the side and back. His hands began to move, tracing subtle patterns that stood out against his dark tunic. Pete leaned in, staring at those patterns. "He's powerful. He could open doors for you. For the Guild. For your House. The Guild...officially sanctions the contract."

_So much for the Companion always chooses their clients_ , Pete thought bitterly. But Gabe's deliberate misunderstanding about his situation sat ill with him. He'd told Gabe that his past finally caught up with him. He didn't have two weeks to lose himself on a cruise vessel or even get a contract with Island's claim blocking the cortex.

Andy rested his chin on Pete's shoulder, coming out of nowhere as he often did. "Gabe's telling you to get at least two weeks out from Persephone and contact him by post rather than wave."

Gabe's hands, meanwhile, were picking up speed and Pete had to hum a tune to remember the numbers his fingers flashed. He played back the wave a few times until he was satisfied that he'd gotten the full message. Pete was fond of ciphers and introduced one or two of his most spiritually-compatible clients to the pastime. He parsed out the numbers and symbols traced by Gabe's elegant fingers until he had a short message. _Heed the siren's call_.

Combined with the information Gabe already gave him, Pete had the best rescue he could hope for from House Arma Angelus. Unfortunately, it was a one-way trip.


	2. A Loose Bolt of a Complete Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Joe Trohman of the Firefly-class transport Fall Out Boy hates Loose Ends. Which is why the 'Verse sees fit to gift him with an entire crew of 'em, and a Distinguished Passenger who's more than they bargained for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so this won't leave me alone. I make no apologies for the puns.

Here's how it is. A captain's goal is to find a crew, find a job, and keep flyin'. Out in the Black, all you got is your crew, your boat, and an endless starfield of possibilities between the worlds in the 'Verse. On the dirtballs, you gotta follow the Rules, whether they're the strict technological structure of the Core planets or the Rim's idea of the law being the quickness of your draw.

Captain Joe Trohman of the _Fall Out Boy_ did not care for Loose Ends.

Which was why the gods had given him a ruttin' crew full of gorram Loose Ends. "Stump, do I pay you to sit around and bleed? Get that drive up and running now!"

"Yes sir, Captain Tight-ass," Patrick, his engineer, shot back, still bleeding all over the damn deck plates. “You gonna move that dead guy or do I have to work around it?”

Dirty, who passed for the ship's stitch-em-up, as well as its bang-em-up (that is, the _Fall Out Boy's_ security "officer"), tossed him a semi-clean rag. "You'll live," he muttered. “More’n I can say for this loser.” He punched the button on the airlock and waited for it to cycle through. Once the airlock door was open, he gave the dead body of the would-be hijacker a few swift kicks and the formerly-breathing mercenary rolled down the ramp and into the dust of Jiangyin for the scavengers.

As the bright sun of the backwater planet shrunk with the close of the hatch, Patrick tied the rag around his bleeding arm. He'd live. The shrapnel didn't hit anything important but that drive wasn't gonna fix itself. He ducked back into the engine trough and started back on the repairs of the aging systems. They were a far cry from the state of the art broadcast equipment he'd been trained in, once upon a time before a few bad decisions about musical influences landed him out here in the Black. But the 'Verse was a funny thing. As long as he had a big enough room and some equipment, Patrick could make an ox braying sound like a celestial chorus in an Osirian concert hall.

None of that mattered out here, though. No concert halls, just Patrick, humming a sweet little tune that he knew the machinery loved in its own way. " _Am I more than you bargained for yet? Been dying to tell you anything..._ "

Several hours later, Patrick stuck his head up out of the trough. "Yo! Joe! Light 'em up!" He pushed himself out of the trough and heard Joe's affirmative from the corridor leading to the bridge. Seconds later, the engines purred to life.

Patrick listened for a moment, hearing the music in the plasma reactors and nodded to himself, content for the time being. She'd need a serious tune-up (when didn't she?) but his experience with the Fall Out Boy taught him that she flew best when she pushed her limits and threw her whole heart and soul into it, damn the consequences.

He made his way to the bridge. Patrick was a "damn the consequences" kinda guy. He had his opinions (and they were all right), and he didn't take to being told to alter his creative vision for anything--engines, music, or conducting himself in the manner to which he'd become accustomed (ie, in charge of the ship). Oh sure, he let Cap'n JoeTroh tell her where to go, but it was Patrick who got her there and made her sing the lullabyes of the Black.

When he reached the bridge, Joe looked up from the pilot's chair, a bowl of Fruity Oat flakes balanced precariously close to the atmo-engine throttle. At Patrick's glare, Joe raised an eyebrow. "Captain's prerogative, Stump."

Patrick took the co-pilot's chair. "Where we headed, boss?"

"Eavesdown Docks on Persephone. Got a payload coming in hot. Discretion assured, and payment generous. Gonna ply your other trade?" Joe raised an eyebrow and the tone was just short of too cocky for Patrick's fist not to clench.

"Maybe I will," he said archly, following up with a coy smirk. "Maybe I'll find some rich gentry fixing to make a go of it on a ranch in the Rim. Live my life in kept luxury to some kind settler lady with soft bosoms and flowery perfume."

Joe snorted. "Yeah, can't swing a dead cat without hittin' one of those out here, right? You'll end up with some rough-handed petty criminal with dreams of greatness who wants a pretty songbird to sing to the cows."

Patrick sniffed. But Joe was probably in the right of it. Nobody out here was soft. Even Patrick, who was soft, wasn't _soft_ -soft. "And you'd have to call on me once a week because your ass would be stuck here without me to keep us in fuel and fancies."

Joe peeked at him, blue eyes bright through the mop of curls. "You wouldn't, really, I reckon."

Patrick raised both eyebrows, tilting his cap back and nudging Joe's knee--gently, so the Cap didn't spill his breakfast all over the console. "How do you reckon _you_ know, huh?" He asked, violating the First Rule of the _Fall Out Boy_ (No Sassing the Captain).

"Because a songbird's home's in a cage," Joe said, rising to his feet. "And you, my friend, ain't no songbird, pretty as your voice is. You're a gorram siren."

They were still most of a day out from Persephone, so Patrick took a shift in the cockpit and let Joe sleep now, so that Patrick could sleep later. Sure, Joe teased him about his "other" job, but the Captain meant nothin' by it. Patrick didn't actually ply that trade anymore. He'd been dead-lucky when he first found himself out and flat-busted in a spaceport hustle when Joe sidled up to him and asked if he were open for business.

_With nothing but his guitar case (which the port authority had already tried to confiscate twice, but Patrick was small and good at sliding in between crowds and dodging uniforms), Patrick followed the scruffy-looking gent and hoped he'd be gentle._

_Patrick made an attempt to sweeten him up by humming a little ditty as they went, but soon enough, he'd drawn a handful of lookie-loos who followed Patrick, following Joe. Joe had turned around, eyed him and the groupies he'd collected, and changed his mind just outside the docking bay where the_ Fall Out Boy _was berthed. "You got any other skills besides lockin' lips, kid? Is this home for you?"_

_Patrick shook his head and turned the answer into a lyric. "Glenview spaceport never meant a thing to me, except idealists in body bags."_

_"Tell you what," Joe had said. "You get me three passengers with that pretty voice of yours, and you'll never have to use that pretty mouth for anything you don't want to do. I've got a bunk for you on the_ Fall Out Boy _if you want. You'll work to earn your keep, but it's honest and you won't die on your knees in an alley."_

_Right then and there, Patrick fumbled his guitar out of its case and sang about finding himself anew while Joe fetched a sign from the cargo hold with passenger prices._

_That run, Patrick didn't get his bunk and had to share with Joe, but it was only because they'd taken on a dozen passengers and needed the spare room for paying customers. But it was okay, because Joe turned out to be a cuddler and a talker, but not a groper, and confessed that he'd been hoping for a way to 'rescue' Patrick. When Patrick was offended, Joe just explained that he didn't look like he'd enjoy the lifestyle of a Person of Negotiable Affections._

Patrick soon earned his bunk in other ways when he discovered that the engines of a Firefly-class transport sounded just like music, and that his ears could tell when those notes weren't hitting the right chords. All it took was a bit of time with the manual, and Patrick's natural curiosity kicked in. Instead of conducting an orchestra, he conducted plasma conduits and reaction-burns in a symphony rendered at supersonic speeds in a vacuum where no one was inconvenienced by the boom.

Fact was, Joe had a soft spot for the pretty-smellin' ladies and gents out on the Rim and in the Independent Worlds. In fact, once upon a time, Joe had had a sweet young thing no further than two days' travel anywhere, until a pretty gal named Marie on Santo cured him of that habit right quick. But Joe's soft spot remained, especially for those who didn't enjoy the protections of the largest Guild in the Oldest Profession.

Of course, out here, soft spots didn't come without a price, and they'd just finished paying the most recent bill with the dead guy, and Patrick was going through the merc's things--the guy drew blood on Patrick, so Patrick got to keep his stuff. Common supplies went into the bins, and the weapons went in the lockers, except for the shiny silver-etched six-shooter, which went onto Patrick's hip. Patrick set aside the data book--he'd snoop as far as he and Dirty could crack the passcodes, then wipe it and re-purpose it to the _Fall Out Boy's_ needs. If there was any porn on it, he knew Dirty could sniff it out faster than a sand-rat on Whitefall. Aside from that, there was some good tech here, for repurposing or more likely, trading on Persephone. He sorted it into Trade Pile and Repurpose Pile, making sure to set aside the amplifying device for his own use, when he came upon a tear in the lining of the merc's rucksack.

Too even to be an accident, the tear could easily have been missed, but there it was. Patrick's fingers found the slit, and what was concealed within it, and pulled it out.

"Huh," he muttered. It was a playing card, the kind used on places like Ariel, where the tech was so plentiful that plain old pasteboard wouldn't cut. The card itself had a built in randomizer and generated a tiny field that repelled surveillance devices and other cheating aids. "Maybe I'll give this to Joe to give to Marie." He flicked the card, but after several minutes, tucked it into his pocket and dismissed it as a novelty. It kept coming up either the Ace or the Ten of Spades. The card was useless if it wasn't completely randomized.

Or it was a cheat's card. Patrick tucked it in the breast pocket of his blue denim jacket where it peeked up over the pocket top, and promptly forgot about it when Joe announced they'd be coming in to Eavesdown Docks within the hour. "Patrick, I'm gonna need you to ply your trade and take a special request."

Patrick grabbed his guitar case, leaving the rest of the merc's possessions scattered on the floor of the storage room and headed to the bridge. "You want me to sing something special? You know I've gotta read the crowd. You want passengers, I gotta hook 'em with what _they_ like, not what _you_ like." 

Joe rolled his eyes. "You learn that in the Core worlds, dumbass?" 

Patrick huffed. "Sure seems like you learned nothin' anywhere."

"Hey," Joe snapped, "Rule number one."

"Doesn't apply when the Captain delivers Sass. Do you want to make money and keep flying or not?"

"Play the song. This time 'round, we're only taking on our special client. This is how we make contact."

He shoved sheet music in Patrick's face. Real, honest to 'Verse sheet music. On _paper_. Crumpled and yellowed with age. Patrick gaped at the precious thing Joe had treated like a dinner napkin. "You've been holding out on me, Captain! Where--where did you even _get_ this? Do you know how _valuable_ \--"

"Yeah, yeah, and ruttin' yeah." Joe waved his hand. "You sit here for the next hour and you learn that song by heart. This--" he pointed to the rarity, "--goes right back into my lock-box until it's needed again." At Patrick's expression, Joe held up a hand. "Captain's prerogative." His mood darkened. "You got the run of the engines, but some parts of this boat keep their secrets even from you."

Patrick finally registered what Joe had been telling him. "Ooohhh." 

Generally, the _Fall Out Boy_ kept on the right side of the law, 'cept for the occasional misdemeanor here and there, but there wasn't anybody outside the Core worlds who didn't skirt the line that got fuzzier the further out you went into the Black. He bent his head to the precious sheets of music and began to play. Joe left the bridge in order to get a few winks, Dirty wandered in to check on Patrick's cuts from earlier, and Patrick kept an eye on the nav station until the prox-alarm warned them that they were entering orbit.

Joe returned to the cockpit and took care of landing while Patrick packed up his guitar, the notes and words fixed in his mind along with newly-formed muscle memory, and made his way to the cargo bay with Dirty, who had the supply list and a sack full of Patrick's scavenged junk to trade. The cargo bay dropped slowly on hydraulics that Patrick made mental note to re-lubricate at his first free minute. Sunlight from the bright morning sun poured in like liquid gold as he stood with his guitar slung around his shoulder, and a folding lawn chair in his hand.

Joe had berthed them in a side avenue away from the main drag of the open-air spaceport. It was a colossally stupid move for a ship looking to take on cargo and passengers, but it was probably a lot smarter of a move for a ship looking to take on _illicit_ cargo or passengers, away from the prying eyes of too many Alliance guards and too many port authority buttinskis. The crowd was so thin here it didn't even qualify as a crowd. There were half a dozen empty berths between them and the intersection. Patrick would be playing to almost no one.

He set up the chair and stuck a painted paper umbrella in the clamp specially put there by himself for just this purpose. Patrick was a child of the stars and the Black and his delicate skin cooked under the punishing rays of a harsh sun. After a few moments of tuning, he began to play, the plaintive song at once heart-wrenchingly beautiful and at the same time, dissonant.

" _Rooooxaaaanne..._ "

He'd made it through the song twice and was working on a third time's chorus when a commotion started down at the end of the row. An ornate hover-palanquin turned down the aisle with lazy grace. As Patrick gaped at the impractical conveyance, he realized it had begun to pick up speed. Speed that should be impossible for a dandified vanity cart. He realized the cart's engine was overloaded and it was out of control.

Heading straight for him.

Patrick saw his life flash before his eyes as the curtains at the front of the palanquin parted and a pair of wide eyes met his above a mouth forming frantic words Patrick couldn't understand. The occupant's hands were waving madly but all Patrick's muscles were consumed with his most recent muscle memory--he just kept playing the song.

" _Put on the red light! Put on the red light!_ "

He couldn't look away from those captivating eyes, even if it meant his certain doom.

A shadow detached itself from the palanquin and he was body-tackled straight out of his chair and onto the ramp of the cargo hold. The Palanquin passed right over him and he felt the sudden pressure as the anti-grav repulsors pressed down on him. The air was forced from his lungs and he heard the sickening crunch of his guitar giving under pressure and sudden pain in his heart that could have come from repulsors or grief, he couldn't be sure.

An ear-splitting screech deafened him next as the palanquin came to a stop only through its irresistible force meeting the immovable object of the cargo bay's back wall.

A moment later, Dirty came barreling down the avenue like his pants were on fire, his coveralls half-off with the sleeves flapping behind him. He waved madly for Patrick to "Getupgetupgetingetgone!" The man in black who'd tackled him suddenly vanished, only to reappear upright, his hand jerking Patrick up by his arm in a painful grip as he practically tossed Patrick into the cargo bay. His hat came clean off and flopped to the side.

The shadow man was already pushing the button to close the bay door and Patrick suddenly registered why as he heard the spaceport sirens coming closer, and the sound of heavy vehicles crunching over the rocky dirt. Dirty sailed head-first over the lip of the closing door, catching the flapping sleeves on an exposed rivet and tearing one of 'em clean off. The door rose further, cutting off the sunlight to temporarily blind him and he heard the telltale _plink-plink_ of slugthrowers sending buckshot into the hull. 

" _Mi Tian Gon_ ," Patrick muttered, shoving his hat back on his head. "My guitar!"

Joe's voice came over the intercom. "No time for the welcome tea ceremony, Ambassador. Hold on to your _Pi Gu_ and say a prayer to whatever gods you pray to. We're takin' off!"

Patrick scrambled to his feet just in time for the ship's sudden cant to fling him back against the wall while the Palanquin tipped fully over, expelling its contents like a busted fizz-juice can, only if it were filled with glitter and silks and a creature that seemed all eyes and sultry looks in a wiry, compact body that landed on pillows that slid right towards the terrified, pinned-against-the-wall-at-two-gees Patrick.

The avalanche of silk and perfumed male hit him at near-orbital speeds and instead of feeling like his guts were squeezing out of him, the other man's body pressed against his and held him together. A cloud of sultry scent hit him at the same time the _Fall Out Boy's_ plasma engines kicked into joyous life and song. Hot whiskey eyes met riptide blues and a smile full of sin finally took the breath he'd been holding clean away. "You," he said, "have an amazing voice."

And Patrick collapsed in a boneless, guitarless heap onto hard deck plates and soft pillows and extra limbs that weren't his and stared up into eyes that made his breathing stop and a smile that started it back up again. "You," he gasped out, "almost killed me!"

The ridiculously attractive man's fingers stroked his cheek absently, as if he were captivated by Patrick. But Patrick was busy being devastated, not captivated. His fingers came up to the other man's face, then tenderly wrapped around his throat and squeezed. "You broke my only gorram guitar!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this likely isn't going to be terribly smutty--fair warning here--I deal more in tension and suggestion. All the same, I do appreciate feedback and kudos. :)  
> Special note: I'm not using a terrible lot of it, but there's some transliterated Mandarin slang in here. I'm not a native speaker and the expressions were pulled right out of the Serenity RPG book, Mandarin being one of two main languages in the Firefly 'Verse.


	3. Got a Lot of Friends Who are Stars, but Some are Just Black Holes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's an inauspicious start to a mercy mission, what with Port Authority on their tail and 'Verse only knows what's after Pete, but Captain Joe's biggest problem may be that his mechanic is fixin' to murder their paying customer before anyone else gets to him. 
> 
> Here's how it is. A ship that don't have a crew that hangs together is sure to find that crew hangin' separately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back we go to the Special Hell. This...may end up longer than five chapters.  
> Most of the Mandarin in here is some form of swear word or version of "dumbass"

Here's how it is. A captain's the boss of his ship and his crew and a harmonious ship is a ship that flies kind. But a ship that's got heat on its aft end needs its crew to keep hulls and heads from lettin' in the weather. It does _not_ need its crew to engage in the _Tian Di Wu Yohn_ pastime of beatin' the stuffing out of its paying customers. 

Joe passed the bridge controls to Dirty after hearing the screeches from the cargo bay and stepped out the bridge door. At Dirty's whine, Joe cut him off. "I know you, Dirty. You'll be down there throwin' credits and _Jah Yoh_ at the underdog. Remember Rule Number One!"

Dirty muttered, shoved his hair out of his eyes, and flopped down into the seat. "No sassin' the captain."

"You're gorram right," Joe retorted. "Take us into the canyons ten minutes, then flip and burn out of atmo once we've shaken 'em." A burst of screaming invective came out of the intercom and Joe ran agitated fingers through his unruly mop. "I'mma go put out a fire in the cargo hold."

**

Patrick had his hands wrapped around a pretty man's throat and life could not get any better than this. Nor any worse, with the loss of his guitar. He wasn't even aware of all the things he was screaming, but some of the words sounded like they came from the devil himself and Patrick wouldn't be surprised. But his opponent, in the middle of going red in the face, kept smiling as he locked his legs around Patrick's waist and gave a heave to his hips that Patrick didn't entirely object to, were the circumstances different and he _still had his gorram guitar_.

His fingers loosened just barely as he landed on his back. With a savage grin, he stared up into the pretty, pretty eyes above him and the lips that went from smile to smirk to snarl. "You--owe--me--" He swung a leg and followed with his hips and he was back on top of the world again just as he felt a hand that didn't belong to the man beneath him twist in the collar of his jacket.

Patrick flew upward at the same time water came out of nowhere and splashed over him, his new friend, and the deck plates.

"Enough!"

The shouted word came from not one but two men, _in a rather pleasing harmony_ , Patrick's suddenly-shocked mind supplied. Cap'n Joe stood over them, his face red and his mane of hair standing on end. An empty bucket dangled from his fingers as he glared at Patrick.

Patrick, for his part, was...upright. Upright, but somehow not touching the deck. He tried to make a sound, but realized he was voiceless thanks to the collar of his shirt cutting into his windpipe. Said shirt collar was currently being held by a man in black, standing behind him, making not a noise or a movement as Patrick dangled. "Are you ready for peaceful parlay?" The man's voice was so very much softer than his grip and Patrick urked once, then nodded.

He was lowered to the deck, while the man in black stepped in front of him and extended his hand. "Are you all right, Companion?"

Companion? Patrick's eyes widened. He made another "urk" sound and his eyes went to the medallion at the other's throat. There it was, mounted in a discreet and elegant setting embedded in warm-toned skin, just above an inked thorn-circle that Patrick kinda wanted to touch. He fisted his hands and squeaked. "C-companion?" Oh now he was done for. "Devil take me for a _Feh Feh Pi Go_."

The Companion burst out laughing and bounced lightly to his feet. "You color up red real _Kuh Ai_ , cutie-pie, but you're no baboon's arse." He shook out his silks, now partly sodden thanks to Joe's bucket, and pressed his hands together and bowed. "Blessings be upon you, Captain. May your boat find calm skies and the gentle arms of the 'Verse enfold her. I'm Pete."

Patrick was still flustered and reeling from being called a "cutie-pie" but he didn't miss the short time it took for Pete to go from red-faced and snarling to composed and charming and--and that smile again. But those words. Ringing started in his ears and he felt the sudden drag of air into constricted lungs. _No. There's no way...No one knows..._ Patrick's hand went reflexively to his throat, making sure his shirt collar was still securely fastened, wet or no. _And no one would ever know_.

Joe, for his part, was doing the Cap'n's title proud and eyeing the man behind Patrick with suspicion. "I was given to understand there'd be one passenger on this trip."

"You understood correctly." Pete turned his smile up a few thousand degrees as he shook out a sodden silk. "Meet the newest member of your crew. Andy Hurley. Security specialist, competent pilot, and... _discount acquisitions_ expert."

The man in black stepped out from behind Patrick--but neglected to drop his hand entirely from his back until Patrick shook him off and hunched his shoulders in a gesture of standing down for peacekeeping's sake. Deeply unassuming in the way he held himself, Andy Hurley simply nodded his head at the Captain. "My services are at your disposal for as long as the Companion travels with you."

Joe crossed his arms and Patrick mentally cheered at someone not being taken in by the Companion's charm, nor his "gift." "Is that so?" Joe arched an eyebrow. "Reckon there's a few ways a man speaks for another man's responsibilities that I'm not comfortable with, and that's a problem, seein's as neither ship nor man can serve two Captains."

The man in black held up his left arm and displayed a wrist cuff with a data display embedded in it. "Details of my contractual obligations to the Companion--his safety comes first for me--and my agreement to subcontract to the _Fall Out Boy_ for any and all duties that don't interfere in my priority."

Joe wrist-bumped him, the data transferring to Joe's own much older cuff unit and a chime indicating successful information exchange broke the silence. "What kind of pilot is a 'competent' pilot? You ever handle a Firefly-class?"

"Enough to know your engines will stutter if you change direction. The plasma mix is off."

Patrick eyed the man in black with pursed lips. "Reckon the Captain wouldn't be so--" he was going to say "foolish" but at Joe's expression, Patrick's smugness flushed itself out the airlock. "You didn't--"

Joe flapped his hands. "We've got Port Authority on our tail! What was I supposed to do? We've still got three minutes to flip and burn."

"And you left this maneuver to Dirty?" Patrick let out a long string of curses. First his guitar, then Dirty, who'd surely push his engines too hard, and now a flip and burn in atmosphere? Patrick scrambled towards the ladder leading to the mid-decks. "This run better be worth it, Captain!" He glanced back at the Companion, whose whiskey-dark eyes made Patrick feel like he'd left his shirt somewhere in the deck grates along with his dignity. "And you owe me a new guitar!"

**

Pete watched the little fireball flare up to the mid-deck and flare right out into the corridor leading to the ship's fore, a twisting tug in his midsection beckoning him to follow the intriguing little spitfire. Gabe's message to follow the Siren had led him right after all, he could feel it. Beneath his feet, though, the right place wasn't exactly set to rights and he felt the ship strain to accelerate. "You have weapons on this vessel?"

The Captain tilted his head and eyed him. "That'd be telling, wouldn't it?" He shoved his sleeves up his forearms, revealing a few interesting tattoos that piqued Pete's curiosity. "Quarters are two decks up. Find a bunk that don't already have anyone's stuff in it--don't take the last one on the portside, that's Dirty's and there's a reason we call 'im that. Stow your gear and wait until we're done with this nonsense."

The ship rumbled in protest and they all wobbled as the stabilizers worked to catch up with the sudden shift in course. "Maybe find a jumpseat and strap in, too." Joe tossed one last look at the two of them as he darted towards the catwalk, yelling, "What are you two _Ung Jeong Jia Ching Jien Soh_ doing to my ship?"

Alone with Andy, Pete scrabbled for balance in the hold. The rush of the engines was too loud in here--he'd have to do something about that if he planned on taking clients in this boat. If he even could take clients with the lockdown on his ability to contract.

Andy ducked into the palanquin and pulled out the two small bags that housed their important personal possessions and handed one to Pete. "Let's do as the Captain says for the time being."

Pete stopped him once they reached the catwalk. "Andy, do you--is this--"

Andy turned, one hand gripped firmly around the railing as the ship shuddered again. "This is only temporary," he said. "As long as the Guild thinks you're simply unavailable, you're still officially part of Arma Angelus. Island's claim on your contracted services is legitimate enough for the Guild, so you're still contracted to him. You can choose to return and fulfill your contract any time in the next two weeks. After that, the Guild can rescind your membership. You'll be free of its obligations. The only question is if you feel you can survive out here without the Guild's protections." Andy's gaze was sober, but his tone was gentle.

Pete felt weak for being grateful to the black-clad bodyguard. "And if I can continue paying your fees without the Guild stipend." He tried not to sound bitter. 

"There is that." Andy continued up the second story of the catwalk and together, they found the quarters, minding the Captain's warning to avoid the last berth based on smell alone.

The bulk of Pete's existence was to create the illusion that his services weren't entirely transactional while charging a sweet premium for maintaining said illusion. So why did he want to rip it away? The first rule of advanced Companion training was to never let yourself believe your clients were anything more than customers, and for Pete's entire career, that had never been a problem, until Island betrayed his trust--stripped the illusion his client had been maintaining.

_Or perhaps that was the first time I encountered real friends_.

Pete pushed New Paris firmly out of his mind and ducked his head into one of the other berths, his curiosity serving a double duty to see just who he'd decided to trust to see him through the Black. Most of the berths were empty, save Dirty's toxic pit and one other. When he slid open the panel, he caught a whiff of vanilla and sandalwood and his fingers tightened on the frame. The label on the door said "Patrick" and was decorated with musical notes and crudely-drawn schematics of the engines, and one sketch that looked like a clockwork penis with a happy face in a different, heavier hand that matched Dirty's nameplate.

The berth had to be the mechanic's. An entire pile of parts dominated the bed, while in the corners piled a number of musical instruments apparently also made from parts. The corners of Pete's mouth turned up at the memory of the shorter man's limbs wrapped around his own. The fighting spirit in the ginger spitfire's eyes warmed corners of Pete's insides that hadn't seen sunshine in forever. He chose the berth directly across from Patrick's and set his bag inside on the bed. There wasn't much room--only enough for a narrow bunk, a wall-mounted storage locker, and a small desk surface suspended from cables and locked up against the wall when not in use. Pete fished in his bag for a stylus and scrawled his name on the card next to the latch, decorating it with stars and hearts and puckered-up kissy-lips.

As he made his way to mid decks and what he thought was the galley, he heard the engines getting louder, along with something else, and he followed the sound.

" _I've got a permanent jet lag, won't you please take me back, please let me in, I wanna blow off steam..._ "

The words were silly, but Pete couldn't help following them to their source. Or humming along to the catchy little melody they inspired. The siren's voice. He peeked in the porthole of the engine room door to see the mechanic, lying on his back, his cap askew, crooning to the engines as he twisted wires together with one hand and manually cranked a valve with the other. Pete had to turn his face away when the glow from the plasma got too bright, but as he lurked outside the engine room, he couldn't help but think the mechanic--Patrick--was actually singing the ship faster.

He felt the lurch as the ship left atmo and the stabilizers kicked in. " _Call me Mr. Plasma Dream but don't tell the Dockmaster I'm ventin' plasma steam, yeah...Tell the Alliance that I'm disappeared_ \--" The pull low in Pete's abdomen was all gravitational, of course, and had absolutely nothing to do with the golden voice behind the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, most of the Guild Houses for Companions are named after bands, and did I borrow some situations from the actual series? Yes...yes I did. If you're looking for mental images, my head-canon is that Patrick here is a la 2005 with the long hair, shaggy sideburns and those ridiculous fanfiction lips (@scarredsodeep/@shark-myths). Joe is somewhere around SRAR-era--the Mane is real, but hasn't yet reached its full, sentient potential. Andy is Saturday!Andy, who wears his hair pulled back and a lot of black. And Pete...late '07 where he's hiding behind the hair, heavy on the guyliner and with the smiles that don't reach his eyes.


	4. A Faded Moon, Stuck on a Little Hot Mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's how it is. A ship's captain's job is tellin' everybody what to do. Sometimes it's tellin' the mechanic to flood the flux conduits to keeping his boat flyin', or tellin' troublemakers to airlock-surf. And sometimes it's tellin' the fella you know in the Port Authority that the missing docking fees was all just a misunderstanding and raiding your rainy-day stash for the extra credits. Get yourself a good crew, and sometimes--on rare occasion--they might even listen.
> 
> After an...eventful departure from Persephone, the biggest danger to the Fall Out Boy's crew isn't from out in the Black, it's from the secrets she's keeping within. Ain't nothing like close quarters for folk to get friendly...and a mite fighty, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeeeaahhh, so, this is getting longer than I thought, but the story is pretty much telling itself. Just...not in order. So I have several more chapters of this completed from where we are now, that's why the total chapter count keeps going up. This is a pretty big 'Verse, and you can expect to see some more familiar faces.
> 
> Same rules apply--if you got here by googling yourself, hightail it back to civilized space before you find that this fandom does have an oddness to her. Shiny?

Here's how it is. A ship's captain's job is tellin' everybody what to do. Sometimes it's tellin' the mechanic to flood the flux conduits to keeping his boat flyin', or tellin' troublemakers to airlock-surf. And sometimes it's tellin' the fella you know in the Port Authority that the missing docking fees was all just a misunderstanding and raiding your rainy-day stash for the extra credits.

Captain Joe Trohman leaned back in the Captain's chair and propped his boots up on the console. "Long-Feng, you have my eternal gratitude." Joe spoke into the transmitter directly to the left of the tiny screen that displayed the unimpressed expression on his contact's face.

"That gratitude better be in the form of credits, Trohman. Your bolt-bucket busted up a prime berth at Eavesdown, humping away like you did."

"Yeah, well, we were on a tight timetable and one of your petty officers decided to live up to their name and order an inspection of our signaling and comms."

"Hard to imagine why, given the broke-dick state of your boat." Long-Feng grinned.

Joe kicked his boots down and leaned forward and the easy smile crinkling his blue eyes disappeared. "Not so hard as to imagine why Port Authority gives a hot damn about an independent trader's ship systems."

Long-Feng's own smile faded. "Yeah...funny thing about that..."

Joe rested his hands on his knees. "Hilarious," he drawled. His hair dipped down over his forehead, obscuring his gaze. He didn't need his hair up for his eyes to go as cold as his tone. 

Long-Feng's lips thinned. "Look, Joe. I'm stuck here. Alliance lets us be, as long as we jump when they call 'bout most things."

Joe kept his gaze steady and waited. Long-Feng stammered. "They're gettin' little jumpy about the place coming across as too shady. Persephone City's gotten a lot of new Core-world businesses moving in. Alliance wants to make it easy for them to keep comin'. Make things respectable."

Joe finally snorted. "Then what are you still doing with a job? You tellin' me the Alliance doesn't know about Clandestine Industries?"

"Listen," Long-Feng said. "Clandestine might be outside the up-and-up, but as far as crime goes, they're organized, which is more'n I can say for you buncha hooligans on the indie circuit." The quartermaster slipped back into a friendly, conspiratorial expression. "I might reckon I can get you in under inspections again next time, but you know how it is with Alliance--extra hoops means extra credits to grease your way through 'em."

Joe allowed himself a small smile in return. "Well, you got the compensation for mucking up your berth, and that sets us even this time around." Anyone seeing the little twist of his lips who didn't know him well might think he was softening. Long-Feng didn't know him well. "I reckon you got your Port Authority hoops to jump through. And it's sorry I am that those hoops won't include my runs to and from Beaumonde."

Long-Feng's smile froze. "Joe, you can't mean--"

"Oh, I can't mean much of anything out here on the disorganized end of things spinning 'round the Verse. But they know me and they like me in New Huntsville." He leaned back again, letting his grin grow wider and more feral. Beneath his mop of unruly curls, his blue eyes glittered like comets coming in for a reel around a sun. "And I reckon Persephone City's new gentry will sit just fine with the domestic bilge-water you all call beer. I hear Southdowne Abbey is going into the brewing business--those nuns probably know their way around a brew or two. Meantime, I reckon I got some new takers out further away from the fancy folk that are gonna get lucky with some good wishes from the Earth-That-Was Distillery."

"Hey now, let's not be too hasty, Joe. I'm sure we can work something out."

Joe kicked the comm dial with his boot. "What's that, Long-Feng? I think we're losing the signal. Must be my sub-inspectional comm systems." With a thump of his heel, he cut the comm altogether.

Patrick eyed him from the pilot's seat. "Was there a point to that?"

Joe swiveled the chair. "Let Long-Feng think about what he's done for a bit."

"All you had to do was haggle him back down to our usual fees. He'd give in the end. He knows he's got to keep enough independent runners like us around for milk runs and specialty jobs." Patrick busied himself at the Nav console, laying in a course that skirted as many Alliance beacons as possible without looking like they were trying to avoid Alliance beacons. "Fact is, we could use him on our side if our passenger is prone to trouble. Especially if we're runnin' quiet under Alliance radar."

Joe grinned. "Oh, I got him on our side whether he realizes it or not."

Patrick looked up from the star chart to eyeball him. "How so?"

Joe's grin grew wider. "For all the noise he was making about the Alliance, it ain't them's gonna cause us trouble." The Captain's grin faded as he stared out the viewport towards the glimmering field of stars. "I reckon whatever our new passenger is running from likes to make moves in the unsavory side of things." He rose to his feet. "You mind keeping an eye on things here while I sort things with our guests?"

"Sure thing," Patrick replied. "We left Eavesdown in a hurry. I could use some time to sort through the supplies we managed to get before we had to leg it."

Joe patted his shoulder. "Captain's job. I'll sort things in the cargo hold, then it's to the galley. I happen to know for a fact that Dirty scored us some fresh ingredients. I reckon I can rustle up a flatbread the likes of which we ain't dined on in awhile."

Patrick perked up. "Really?"

Joe winked. "Wouldn't do for our esteemed guest's first meal to be base proteins now, would it?"

Patrick snorted. "Screw our esteemed guest." Of course, now he was thinking about doing just that, and Joe could tell just by looking at the blush creeping up his mechanic's neck. "I want in on that real food."

"Payin' customers before people I pay."

"Wait, you pay me?"

"Only when ya need it." Before he left the cockpit, he glanced back at Patrick, still fighting the blush while his tongue crept out between his teeth as he worked the logarithms to get them the best time between here and the next fuel station. His mechanic wasn't completely innocent, but he'd never truly hardened, either. Not in the way the 'Verse often asked of a man whose life hung by gossamer threads and starlight.

And he was complete _Mi Tian Gohn_ at a poker face. His boy had taken a shine to the Companion. Probably like a dozen before him, and a million stories from the first days folk had called this 'Verse home. Every single one of 'em ending badly, too.

**

Pete found the magna-crane controls and figured out how to hitch the head to the palanquin. After some wrestling, he managed to right the thing with many lively-sounding thumps until the gold-painted box on the sled runners stood upright, against the back wall of the cargo area. He only had to re-position it once, when he realized the door was facing the wall.

Inside, the palanquin's benches had been up-ended, cushions scattered. Pete righted the cushions and dusted them off. Inside the under-storage, he found what he'd been hoping to find.

He lifted out the pear-shaped cover of thick, scarred, and battered leather. The embossing had worn down to faint impressions and traces of tinted stain, but the leather was still supple at the bends and worn down to soft suede at the corners. He set the case down on the cushions and unzipped it. There was dust, but nothing more than a light coating of the ever-present grit marred the object inside. An antique, possibly valuable on the open market, but never worth more as a trade item than the person he had in mind. The other items in the bench storage, he pawed through, only mildly interested--he would sort them out later.

The palanquin was technically Guild property, just like Pete. Companions often traveled shorter distances in anti-grav palanquins supplied by the Guild which provided privacy and comfort in sometimes hostile weather conditions, and the older models like this one could double as berths for a young or less well-known Companion to entertain clients who didn't have spaces of their own. His guardian angel Gabe had sent word to Persephone's House Decaydance to supply Pete with the older model, and Pete would owe Gabe even more for the thoughtfulness. Older model palanquins, although slower and more ponderous than the sleek Core-aesthetic, also tended to be constructed for durability on border and frontier worlds, and this one had clearly seen its fair share of hostile environments, both natural and man-made.

If Gabe, or anyone else, saw his activities for the next several hours, Pete might have been accused of "nesting," which was a ridiculous notion, on account of he was about to become very, very homeless. Without disturbing the crew, or even seeing anyone else--Andy included, although Pete suspected Andy was lurking in the shadows as was his wont--Pete found cleaning supplies and set to work taking care of the palanquin's scarred, gilt-painted outside, and setting the insides to rights after that.

As he was finishing up, the Captain slid down the grated stairs via the handrails, landing lightly on the deckplates for a man tall as he was. "Reckon I'd have found you in quarters enjoying a rest after your...exciting grand entrance." The taller man brushed his hands down his long coat. Underneath the oilcloth, Pete spied a double belt and holsters strapped to each hip. Beneath the cuffs of the overcoat, the glint of a knife hilt at the Captain's left wrist flashed.

Pete straightened, wary. He wondered at the cause of a Captain needing to be so armed on his own ship. "I don't sleep much, Captain. I'd be a poor guest if I didn't clean up the mess I'm partially responsible for."

Joe glanced down at the wet spot on the solid plate of the deck, then over to the damp mop and bucket. He nodded. "I do appreciate a passenger that looks after himself." He glanced up at the magna-crane. "As well as a passenger who'd be kind enough to request help for some things might be an overreach."

Pete hunched his shoulders, tucking his hands into the scarf at his hips. "I looked in on your mechanic and he seemed a mite busy. It was no trouble for me to keep my own mess contained." He ducked his head and offered the Captain a crooked grin and a glance from beneath his bangs designed to convey a certain bashful eagerness to please--and all that that implied. "I'm no stranger to hard work no matter what tales my pretty hands might tell." 

Captain Joe's eyebrows went up. "Be that as it may, I'd hate for my girl's...quirks...to put you to peril, Companion." Joe eyed the righted palanquin. "What you fixin' to do with this thing?"

Pete patted the recently-cleaned side of the conveyance. "I didn't come empty-handed." He motioned to the palanquin's sled-runners. "This old girl's probably no longer much for traveling about anymore, unless your mechanic's also a magician." Though now that he said it, he wouldn't be surprised to learn that the siren who sang to the engines could summon something from beyond the veil, too. "But the accelerator and anti-grav unit should be salvageable." 

Joe nodded. "Can't say parts are ever not useful out here, whether for trade or keeping our own selves in the sky. My contact was forthcomin' on credits, but not so much on information. Mind telling me what kind of trip you're expecting?"

"One of a certain length." Pete didn't care to be vague with this Captain, but the fact was, his future hung in the drift same as if it had been a ship of its own, done on fuel and struggling with life support. "Beyond that--" He shrugged. "You're the captain, Captain."

"Running don't come free, further we get away from civilization, you understand." Joe put his hands on his hips and tilted his head. 

Pete had the uncomfortable feeling of being sized up. Not as he was accustomed to--for his attractiveness and sensuality. Captain Joe seemed to be sizing him for the oxygen he'd use up, and maybe just a bit of whether or not Pete would make good eating. "I'm prepared. I've got pretties and shinies in here that'll make a border-world trader's mouth water." Pete pushed the door to the palanquin open. "Silks from Sihnon, Jewelry and sundries from Londinium and Bernadette. Supplements and cures from Ariel--real ones, mind you, suitable for a Companion's needs, if you get my wave."

Joe made a face and held up his hand. "Those will bring a pretty credit on the Border. Unless you need 'em."

Pete sniffed. "Please. My clients go through rigorous screening before I'll even inhabit the same atmosphere as them." He grinned. "My affections are negotiable, but the exchange rate's high."

"Er, I'll remember that." Joe scratched the back of his neck. "Don't suppose you'll be doing much of that?"

Was the Captain blushing? Pete grinned. "On the contrary. The main carriage makes a perfectly pretty little room for me to earn my keep--with a cut going to my gracious host, of course."

To Pete's surprise, the Captain scowled at that. The friendliness in the blue eyes turned to the cold edge of an atmosphere as the ship shuddered beneath them. Pete stiffened. Gabe would not have pointed him towards an escape that pivoted on some bigoted _Buhn Dahn_ prejudiced against honest work providing aid and comfort to those what had the credits to seek it from a trained professional, but maybe Gabe had to beg, and therefore couldn't choose. That'd be a sticky bit of ugly.

The Captain jutted his chin out. "I reckon if I'm to make a living off someone's back, it'll only ever be my own, and I'm not much of one for wearing the pretties. You keep your earnings, and pay your way in credits and bein' useful around the ship--"

"I don't service the crew," Pete said quickly, more to stave off any...misunderstandings that still periodically came up in a Companion's travels.

"Good," Joe snapped, "Because I don't pay 'em enough to afford the likes of a Registered Companion." He scratched the back of his head.

As if sensing the tension, Andy appeared out of the shadows. To his credit, the Captain barely twitched. To further his credit, he'd twitched towards his shooter. To Andy's credit, he came out with hands already up in a peaceful gesture. And all the credits flowed free, Pete thought wryly.

"The Cortex is free of bulletins out for either us or the _Fall Out Boy_. Alliance might be aiming to leave us be for the moment."

Joe shook his head. "Alliance ain't your problem. Least, not yet." He turned to Andy. "Where you all want to be let off? Job didn't specify a location, nor a timeline, and the Companion here can't give me much more than two weeks."

"I'll be honest and say the Companion's run into some Contract trouble."  Andy's expression went grave, but remained even enough to put the Captain at ease, which Pete was grateful for. 

Captain Joe crossed his arms and cocked his head, making the glorious mane of curls bounce around his head. "Walk with me, Mister Hurley. I can't stand around all day jawing when I got a ship to run, and if I stand around here anymore, I'll be smelling all flowery like the Companion and I'll end up having to ask you to beat the ladies off with a stick."

Andy followed with a nod and a single glance back at Pete, warning him without words to stay put and cause no trouble. Pete wasn't quite sure how to do that. Nervous energy sparked through his limbs from the narrow escape on Persephone and the constant pressure at the back of his neck and at the embed in his throat where the medallion rested. He had a pending contract the Guild expected him to fulfill. Island was out there, hunting him to fulfill that contract. And somewhere in this ass-forsaken 'Verse, he had friends who needed help.

"You wanna tell me your story?" Joe tossed over his shoulder as the two of them headed up the stairs to the catwalk and headed mid-ships. Pete watched them size each other up like a couple of big, furry cats.

Andy shrugged. "We have that two weeks to decide whether his contract trouble is _worth_ the trouble, or whether we...make some trouble of our own."

Joe patted Andy's shoulder, but lightly enough to dial down the threat. "My good man, I believe you found the right ship. We are _gifted_ at making trouble."

**

Dirty spelled him in the cockpit just as Patrick was registering the scents of tomatoes, cheese, and real flatbread, over the whiff of RealSmoke(TM) Flavored Protein Crumbles "guaranteed to trick a rancher out of the real thing" if the Blue Sun brand's jingle was to be believed. "Save some for me?"

"Dirty, I'll do you one better and bring you a slice while it's hot, but if and only if you promise you'll give the mule a lube job. That last run on Jiangyin got grit in her gears and we need that ground vehicle almost as much as I need that flatbread."

Dirty grunted but he nodded, scrubbing a hand down his unshaven face. "While it's hot, Stump."

"Lube tonight, Dirty." Patrick lifted his denim jacket from the back of the chair and shrugged into it.

"Don't threaten me with a good time, Sweetheart."

Patrick left the cockpit with Dirty's snickers ringing in his ears, his own laughs echoing down the corridor. He poked his head into the galley mid-ships. "Need an extra hand, Captain?"

Joe looked up from the butcher block table, flour streaking his hair and face. "It's your lucky day, Stump. Mister Hurley here is chopping my vegetables, getting you out of kitchen duty. You wanna sing for your supper, I'll even let you off the hook for dishes tonight."

Patrick arched an eyebrow. "Flatbread's finger-food. What do we need plates for?"

"So you only have to sing a few songs. C'mon. It'll be a good introduction to our guests."

"I suppose--" He broke off. "Maybe gonna have to pass on that since my guitar's in _little tiny toothpicks_ back on Persephone." He couldn't stop the stab of genuine regret and hunched his shoulders.

Joe looked away. "Hey, buddy. We're sure to find a new one for you. I've got that run to New Huntsville on Beaumonde. I bet we could find a few extra minutes to go to the capital city there and look for something for you."

"Your offer's kind, Joe, but you know we can't afford Border prices. I've got a bodhran in my quarters. You'll just have to enjoy me drumming tonight when I sing."

Hurley lifted his head. "You drum?" His steady slices through tomatoes didn't miss a beat.

Patrick nodded. "Aye, I'm competent."

Joe snorted. "Competent, he says. My mechanic can play anything you put in front of him, up to and including the dulcet tones of the rocket-based combined cycle engine that this here boat calls its heart." Joe thwacked the dough to emphasize his point. "And he can make it sing, too."

Patrick shifted. "Er--"

Hurley gave him a once-over, as if seeing him for the first time. His eyes locked on Patrick's chest. "What you got there, son?"

Patrick looked down. "What, oh, this?" He pulled the playing card out of his pocket. "Something I-- _liberated_ from a fella tried to _perforate_ me. Joe, I thought it might make a cute courtin' gift for you to give to Madame Marie, if you're seeing her again." Patrick held the card out. The randomizer still flickered between the Ace and the Ten of Spades. "Although it might be a cheater's card so that...probably _isn't_ the message you want to be sending someone like Madame Marie."

Joe began tossing the dough in the air, spinning it, sending it from hand to hand as he stretched it into a larger circle. "You trying to give Marie another reason to stick me with one of her hatpins?"

Hurley took the card. "You took down a Black Card?" 

His features shifted and Patrick suddenly found himself reaching for his pants pocket. "It was him or me and he came from behind. Dunno what a Black Card is or why I should care when he moved first."

Joe let the dough drop to the table with a floury splat. "Hurley--"

Hurley shook the card. "No. It can't--You said you got this off a man?"

Patrick nodded.

Hurley tilted his head to the side. "Hm. Bears looking into." He handed the card back to Patrick and the tension in the room drained with the no-longer-tense set of his shoulders.

"You wanna explain?" Joe spoke quietly, but there was an unmistakable thread of steel to his voice that suggested the explaining would be the deciding factor as to whether or not the man in black would be taking a short walk outside before suppertime.

Andy met Joe's eyes with steady calm that said there were good odds for a betting man in him coming back from that walk without much more than frost on his eyebrows. "If you deal fairly with folk who haven't done you wrong, you have nothing to fear from the Black Cards."

"I'd say that's a matter of perspective, making a judgment call like that." Joe's hands moved on the dough, spreading it out thin and rolling the edges up to keep the tomato sauce and toppings from any untimely spills.

"And the Black Cards have excellent judgment. If you're not one of those kicks a person when they're down, you have nothing to worry about."

"Clearly I did, and if you haven't guessed from looking at me, I can't hardly reach anybody to kick at any height!"

Andy shook his head. "That Black Card did not rightly belong to a man who'd knife a body in the back. It belonged to a--well, she ain't no lady, 'cept for her pronouns." He fixed Patrick with a penetrating look. "You and I will talk later about this."

"And you and I will be talking about it now, I figure." Joe's tone had eased, but that thread of steel still ran through it. "Patrick, why don't you fetch your bodhran and our Companion. Supper will be ready shortly."

Patrick was grateful enough to escape that situation that he would have jumped the catwalk and risked a busted leg to fall down the three levels into the cargo hold, if it weren't for the bulkheads that stood between the decks.

Just what kind of history did Andy Hurley have? The man wore shadows like--like Pete wore sequins and eyeliner. Both very good at hiding things, he thought. Given Joe's earlier discovery--that it was Persephone's criminal element more interested in Pete than its law enforcement--Patrick figured there was no short of ugly coming in hot. He wondered what Pete's story was. As much as the underworld was no small thing to run afoul of, neither was the Companions' Guild, and if Patrick had the credits to be a betting man, he figured he'd not go wrong betting on the Guild. They had power and they knew how to grab a man--or a whole criminal syndicate--by the short and curlies when necessary.

Speaking of short and curlies, he came into the cargo hold to find the palanquin righted and Pete lounging in it, with the doors opened and the shutters on the window blown wide. "Hey, _Kuh ai_. Come down here to court?" Pete dropped an eyelid in a saucy wink that had immediate heat running up Patrick's neck. The fact that the Companion had stripped his undershirt and lounged in his shiny pants with only a few sheer scarves around his neck was no help. His eyeliner was smudged and his hair had started to curl away from its smoothed-down style and Patrick remembered how well they both had just _fit together_ when he first tried to choke Pete to death. No hard feelings, though.

Patrick fisted his hands at the sides of his coveralls. They so wanted to go to his jacket collar and check to make sure his shirt was buttoned up all the way over his chest. "I don't--I thought--what kind of Companion are you?"

"One that never services their crew." Pete delivered the brush-off with a smile and another coy lowering of his lashes as he rolled off the cushions and to his feet in a graceful spring that landed him right in front of Patrick. He lifted his arms and caught the door frame in his hands, swaying his body to and fro in the doorway. "But for you, I'd make an exception."

"No you would _not_ , and shame on you for even joking about it!" His hot outburst, before he could curb his tongue, made Patrick flush. "That's--that's not what I--I didn't mean--you have to know I wouldn't--"

"Oh my. Hit a nerve there, did I?" Pete leaned in, invading Patrick's space until he felt like there was plasma between them about to ignite. His smile grew wider, flashing his teeth and genuine amusement for just a moment. He tapped a finger against Patrick's nose. "You blush so pretty I'm surprised the Guild didn't snap you up from whatever little one-spaceport mudball your mother called home." Pete lowered his eyes and raised them again, for effect, Patrick was sure. 

Every time he lifted those kohl-lined lashes to reveal their hot whiskey shine, the gleam in those topaz depths stole Patrick's breath away. Pete had to know this, he was a Companion, and Patrick reckoned Pete helped himself to a lot of breath from a lot of lungs that didn't belong to him. But this time, in addition to those breath-stealing gazes, Pete's words stole a few stutters of his pulse. "What do you know?" The words came out breathless and defensive and Patrick's hands twisted in the straps of the goggles hanging from his neck.

"I know I tie up your tongue," Pete said. "It's okay, you know. I'm very good at what I do."

"So am I," Patrick retorted. "Only I don't go around bragging out my shiny britches about it."

Pete gave a low, dark laugh. "It's my job to get folk out of their britches." He licked his lips. "I don't service crew because it does no good to get too familiar with one's staff."

Patrick scowled.  "I'm not your--" He changed tactics mid-retort. Pete was baiting him, he had to be. Fine. "Isn't that your first year of Companion training? Getting _familiar with your staff?_ "

To his surprise, the Companion threw his head back and laughed--a real laugh, braying like a jackass nervous about a windstorm. The coy-eyed gazes disappeared and his entire face lit up. "You're gonna be my favorite from now on." He leaned in close and Patrick could smell the incense clinging to the folds of the glitter-shot scarves that draped his bare torso, concealing and revealing stretches of tanned and inked flesh.

Pete's eyes crinkled at the corners and his mouth suddenly became too wide to hold a simper, too big for a smirk, and Patrick thought there might be a short in the whole ship's electrical system because he'd just been struck by lightning.

"Bellerophon," Patrick said, his voice coming sudden and strong, on the heels of breathlessness. "I'm from Bellerophon." He lifted his chin. "You're--you're not the first fancy to ever swish in front of me."

Pete's lips curved up in a devastating smirk, the earlier traces of his genuine laugh tucked safely away. "And yet here you are, favored son of 'the most gracious lifestyle in the Core worlds,' ass-deep in elbow grease on a Rim-bound rust-bucket of questionable pedigree." 

Patrick sniffed--indignantly, and not at all to get a bigger huff of the exotic, spicy scent of incense and Pete. _Too late_ , he thought. _I've seen you_. "I came to ask if you'd like to break bread with us. We've got fresh greens from back on Persephone, best eaten before they go bad. The Captain's made flatbread pizza, and I've a mind to sing a few bars in the name of companionship." Patrick nodded, as if that would put Pete in his place. "Er, the camaraderie-kind of companionship. Not the--your kind." He tilted his chin up even further, peering out from his glasses at the courtesan, whose smile remained fixed and full of the devil himself. "Because you don't service crew."

With that, he backed away towards the stairs, trying to escape Pete's...Pete-ness.

"Hey!" Pete called when he was halfway up.

Patrick turned. "Yeah?"

He peered down into Pete's upturned face and found a genuine smile there, not as broad as the laugh from before, but enough to crinkle the corners of the Companion's eyes. "Thank you," Pete said. "It will be my honor to join you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're at all familiar with the Firefly series, you might recognize some nods to the episodes. They sort of just showed themselves and asked if the boys could play in them. It takes a stronger person than me to resist a request like that.


	5. Free Love On The Streets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's how it is. A good ship is home to you and your crew. She'll shelter you, move you, keep you safe, and keep you free. Might even give you a family. If you ain't too cowardly to commit to her, she'll be devoted to you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life aboard the Fall Out Boy is calmer than running from the mob and the Guild, but not without its secrets and mysteries.

Here's how it is. The further away you get from the Core worlds, the...fuzzier the line gets between the up-and-up and the not-so-up. Fact is, justice is blind and it's a big ol' 'Verse. She can take too long a time to catch up, so most folks find it more convenient to keep a bit of instantaneous justice on the hip. For them as is outrunnin' the long arm of the law, for reasons fair or foul (because justice may be blind, but she knows when a pistol's to her head), whichever side ain't actively gunnin' for you has the potential to be friendly. Until they're not.

"We'll provision best we can and stay flyin' for as long as we can," Joe said to Andy over the sound of oil sizzling on a hot platen. "We'll steer closer to the Alliance lanes and hope we're too small for their notice."

"That won't work forever." Hurley murmured. "You seem pretty sure that Clandestine is the biggest threat to the Companion, but the Alliance is no friend to anybody out here."

Joe nodded. "Alliance throws its weight around on the regular, but out here it's a give and take between the locals and the feds. Alliance won't press on an excuse like an inspection, especially on a small freighter like ours, unless they're looking for something in a place they already think they know where to find it, and I don't reckon the Alliance is looking for anything--or anyone--we've got right this moment."

"You and I have a different set of experiences with the Alliance," Andy said. "I've seen firsthand the inequality, the injustices, and the heavy hand of the law, misapplied."

Joe respected the edge in the quiet man's voice. "Surely you have, and surely that's truth. But out here, the Alliance is...well, it's like keepin' an eye out for comets and asteroids and the like. Aye, it'll rain down destruction on your head should it ever become a problem, but eyes on the distant heavenly bodies just leaves you open to missing what's coiled on the ground next to your boot and hissing fit to strike."

Joe waited until the other man seemed to process his words and kept right on going, because it was his ship and he'd talk when he liked and for however long he liked. "But the locals? They've got some investment, and on a smaller scale, the threshold for a bigger payment isn't so high as to dismiss a simple Firefly-class independent outfit like yours truly." He turned from the oven and reached for the long-handled wooden board on which the flatbread rested. "Haven's out at the edge of Clandestine's reach and close enough for us to provision, but folk like us aren't always welcome and never prioritized. If we were to escort a Registered Companion, however, I do believe our social standing among the fine folk of Haven would rise enough to earn us a berth and a break to provision. I can't say we'll have fare as fancy as the Companion's used to, but it'll be enough to keep us on the move and out of their reach for the time being."

Hurley rubbed his knuckles. "It may take some diplomacy, but the Companion's no slouch at that."

"Much as I can't stand to say it, the Alliance presence there will keep a leash on Clandestine. Haven's at the edge of their territory."

"We will need to remain discreet with the Companion's identity." Andy stroked his chin. "And walk the line using the Guild's reputation without Pete's identity coming into it."

"Mind going into a little bit about what kind of specific scrape your Companion has with Clandestine?" Joe turned back and slid the flatbread from the peel into the oven and closed the door.

During this time, Hurley had kept his own counsel. That was just fine with Joe, as he appreciated a man who knew how to use silences. He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter and waited.

Hurley was not a fidgeting man, so that made the slightest twitches something of a tell. "It isn't really my story to tell," he began, using careful words. "But the long and short of it is that Pete's one Companion. The Guild is a powerful entity. And powerful entities have powerful enemies. When titans clash..." 

"It's the little folk that end up collateral damage." Joe finished for him.

Andy nodded. "A powerful client wants an exclusive contract with Pete. Pete does not wish to take the contract. The Guild...would find it much easier if Pete _did_ take the contract. Thus far, Pete's managed to hold them off, but this client's patience is at an end and Pete's got these two weeks to decide..." Andy trailed off with a shrug.

"Whether he wants to be the Guild's man or his own man." Joe finished.

**

Patrick fled the Companion's presence with his face still on fire and went to shelter in his bunk for the few minutes it would take to find his bodhran. But no escape was to be found there when he noted the empty berth across from his now sported a merrily-scrawled "Pete" on the nameplate and his own hatch-- _ruttin' hell, Dirty! Dicks on the nameplates again?_ \--wouldn't be able to open without Pete knowing instantly.

Maybe the Companion would choose to stay in the fine palanquin among his silks and brocades and pillows with fringe and sequins instead of the less-than-lavish berths on the _Fall Out Boy_. Patrick entered his quarters, shut the door and let his hand finally go to his throat. In front of the small mirror over his desk, he unfastened the top of his coveralls and shifted the neckerchief to one side. 

As he confronted his image, he swallowed past the lump in his throat. The embed grafted to his skin just below the hollow of his throat was old. And tarnished. And very, very empty. No Guild medallion had ever been mounted as the jewel in the embed's setting, bestowing the glittering protection or the fine sheen of respectability over Patrick. Indeed its absence in many places acted as an invitation to some to be...troublesome.

Joe might tease him of plying his "other trade" in the spaceports, but not since they first met had Joe either seen the empty embed, nor let anyone else see it. Neckerchiefs, bandannas, high-collared shirts, and cowls all seemed to find their way into Patrick's drawers so, as Joe put it, other things that _weren't_ so welcome didn't try to find their way into Patrick's drawers. 

And that was why Patrick Stump would sing the _Fall Out Boy_ out past the Oort cloud or even straight into the heart of Reaver territory if need be. In point of fact, their course was taking them a mite close in order to avoid the Alliance. He tossed his coveralls to the side and traded them for a clean button all-the-way-up shirt, a fresh bandanna of red woven fabric, soft hide pants, and a vest made of leather that matched his "we have company" cap. The cap, he perched on his head after running a brush through his ginger locks and reminding himself that a haircut would not be unwelcome since his hair was now longer than his sideburns. And no, he was most certainly _not_ dressing for company because of the Companion and his compelling presence, thank you very much. It was all to do with the flatbread.

Joe's flatbread had a powerful compelling way about it. Patrick hung his goggles on the hook to the side of the desk and only clipped half of his usual array of multi-tools to his belt. He stared down at the last accessories and reluctantly slipped Anna Agony, his tiny holdout blaster, into the thigh pocket of his pants. He tucked his knife and its sheath up into the small of his back where they belonged, but left the wrist daggers behind. They'd interfere with his playing and he knew Joe or Dirty might have something to say--especially since one of those wrist stickers had saved his life back on Jiangyin. Still, it was the galley, and the only fighting that ought to be breaking out would be over the last slice of flatbread.

Patrick followed the aroma back to the galley, bodhran in hand. Pete was already present, as were Joe and Andy, who both watched Pete stare with some confusion at the layout at the center of the table. Patrick set the drum and its tipper on the sideboard, then tipped his hat to Joe. "Captain." He then moved around smoothly to the chair next to Pete and pulled it out for the be-draped man. "Companion? You've never dined on flatbread pie before?"

Pete's eyebrows rose at his gesture, but Patrick shrugged and motioned for him to sit. "We don't have much call for fancy manners, but we all know 'em, even if some of us might've forgot 'em for a minute when faced with this pie."

Pete sank into the chair, unable to keep his eyes on either Patrick, who gestured to the Captain and Andy to sit, or the flatbread dish before them, which clearly intrigued him. 

Joe's dough from earlier had stretched out into an uneven oblong and the rolled edges were browned and crisp, while steam wafted up from the red and cream expanse of the toppings. Patrick knew the smell alone was enough to turn a good man's thoughts to bad, but for some reason, he was eager to initiate the Registered Companion into this new experience.

"I thought you were the mechanic," Andy said as Patrick picked up the large knife.

Patrick shrugged. "Not the only thing I've ever done, just one of the two things I'm good at." He began to cut the flatbread into triangles.

The oven-baked aroma wafted through the air, mingling with the scents of the melted cheese and the spicy, yet faintly chemical-tinged smell of the protein crumbles. Patrick slipped the flat edge of his knife beneath a slender triangle of flatbread and lifted it towards Pete. The Companion eyed him skeptically until Patrick dealt slices to the Captain, Andy, and the plate set aside for Dirty, then snagged a slice for himself. "Use your fingers," Patrick murmured. "Fold it in the middle, but not all the way. Trust me. Joe's the Captain of the _Fall Out Boy_ for a reason."

Pete just smiled and shook his head. But he copied Patrick's own exaggerated movements and bit into the hot, melted cheese and tomato sauce. Patrick stopped mid-bite and just watched the Companion's expression. First, Pete closed his eyes, lashes making dark smudges against his tanned skin. Next, his features relaxed as he chewed. Patrick studiously avoided thinking anything untoward as he watched the movements of Pete's throat as he swallowed that first bite. Finally, he opened his topaz eyes and met Patrick's. " _Wuo Duh Tian Ah!_ "

Patrick couldn't keep the grin from spreading across his face. "Cap'n Joe, please enter in the ship's log that today was the day that ship's mechanic Patrick Stump made a Registered Companion shout 'Oh my god!' and then accidentally forward it to the Cortex central database for public distribution, if you please?"

Joe snorted laughter. A moment later, Hurley's quiet chuckles broke in. Pete was still staring at Patrick, his own lazy grin almost as wide as Patrick's. "Just who are you, ship's mechanic Patrick Stump?"

"Nobody." Patrick ducked his head and took Dirty's plate. "Just another lost soul on the drift, taking home where I find it."

**

Pete watched the mechanic leave the galley with their pilot's dinner and took another bite of the amazing culinary creation. He'd dined at the finest Core-world establishments, at the sides of diplomats and men and women of power and renown, and this simply-topped flatbread tasted better than anything those chefs had ever come up with, imitation meat-protein crumbles or no. He shot a glance at the Captain. "You made this?"

Captain Trohman shrugged. "Eh. It's quick, it's easy, and it keeps bellies from rumbling. When we have fresh goods, it's best to use 'em."

Pete reached the end of the slice and nearly nibbled his fingers before he realized the food was gone. "It's incredible, is what it is." In a completely un-Companion-like move, he licked the floury, greasy residue from his fingers.

Joe's smile was wry. "Maybe it tastes better when it's eaten by a free man."

Pete's fingers stilled, still touching his lips. "Of course I'm a free man." Andy cleared his throat. Pete pointedly ignored him and reached for another slice at Joe's gestured invitation. "The Guild isn't prison, it's protection."

"That may be just so for most Companions," Joe said, leaning back and pushing his plate away. He took a sip of his drink--lemonade with mint from Pete's own stash--and stretched his feet out in front of him. "But Mister Hurley here tells me different. And your presence aboard my humble little home in the stars confirms it."

Pete set down the slice of flatbread. "Andy, what did you tell him?"

Andy finished chewing and sipped his lemonade in the deliberate way he tended towards, when he was considering his words carefully. Pete respected this, unless he was bristling, which was right now. "The Guild is your protection the same way a fence protects the horses in the paddock, Companion."

Joe eyed Pete, and Pete was struck to realize the Captain's eyes weren't unkind, even if his expression was still tinged with suspicion. "Protection don't come free, does it? Guild has obligations to you, and you have likewise obligations to them. Mister Hurley tells me you've got a--a contract out on you, is that correct?"

Pete glanced at Andy. "When you put it like that..." He sighed. "A Companion chooses their own clients. It's as established as gravity." He licked suddenly nervous lips. "All the same, a contract obliges the Companion as much as the client to honest business."

Andy chose that moment to speak again. "This is not honest business, Pete, and you know it. The Guild should never have confirmed that contract without your consent." To Joe, he said, "The client used a loophole and claimed that Pete never fulfilled the full term of his initial contract. Since Pete had already accepted the initial contract, the Guild re-opened it and re-obliged him to return to complete the contract." At this, Andy glowered. "There's no expiration on it."

Joe scowled. "That's slavery!"

Andy nodded once, not belaboring the point. "While that contract is active, Pete can't contract with other clients under the Guild's aegis. And those who do Pete's business outside the Guild's protection--"

"Are whores," Pete finished for him, a set edge to his jaw that he felt in his back teeth. "But don't you worry, Captain. I can still make it work. Pay my way and pull my weight." Despite the conviction in his words, Pete felt the 'Verse under him slipping ever so slightly. He had no trouble believing what he did was honest work, and that what he did was what he was good for, but without the Guild, he'd find it harder to lift his head in front of the mirror.

Patrick stepped back into the galley. " _No one_ has to whore on this boat," he said, his gaze flicking from Pete to Joe.

Joe nodded. "Just so." He shared a look with Patrick that became almost palpable, and Pete grew even more curious. "You've a mind to sing, Stump?"

"Yeah. I think I got just the song." Patrick picked up his drum and started a beat. " _I'll believe whatever you say, as long as I know I'm getting paid_."

The song was a bite. Pete could hear a satirical edge in the lyrics that went all the way to the minor notes in Patrick's voice and the unexpected downbeats where some of the accents fell. He found himself tapping along to the drumbeats Patrick played in the center and along the edges of the instrument, coaxing different sounds from a single surface. Pete's fingers moved along the tops of his thighs, tapping out beats of his own until Patrick finished the song. When the last drumbeat faded into silence, Pete picked up the beat with his own hands, smashing them together as if he'd been sitting in the front row center seat of a New Paris concert hall.

Beside him, Andy was a little more reserved. "I haven't heard anything that pretty since I was last on Ariel."

Patrick, for his part, turned red as the sauce on Pete's new favorite food and ducked his head. "I don't really sing good enough for the Core."

Andy snorted, reaching into the pack he'd left hanging over his chair. "Sure, and this isn't Osiris Crush '83." He pulled out two wine bottles and set them on the table, with a glance toward Pete.

Joe's eyes widened. "The hell you say!"

Pete smirked. "I told you, I've got means to pay my way. There's a half-dozen more for you and your crew to drink or to trade."

Joe took the bottle and read the label. "Fetch a pretty penny in the Core and on the Border, but further out we get, the fewer buyers we have. We'll trade these at Haven and drink the ale in the cooler."

Andy nodded. "I saw some plain cider in there I'd lay claim to, if you will. Or water's fine."

Joe passed around ales and a cider for Andy and Patrick took up the bodhran again. They moved from the galley into the little common area across the corridor. Pete reclined on a cluster of pillows and a folded, scratchy blanket (and felt like a king, nevertheless) while Joe and Andy shared the couch and Patrick sat on a stool in front of Pete, playing the drum and singing. He cycled through some traditional ballads (one about a tavern named after a cow that had Joe laughing like a loon and Dirty, who'd joined them briefly while Andy offered to take the helm, singing along).

Pete hadn't spent such an enjoyable evening in an age. There was always the hustle, and in between the hustle was the information management designed to keep his appeal when time claimed its inevitable due. Captain Joe had excused himself, claiming the need for sleep before his turn at the helm and Dirty had offered to show Andy some of the quirkier aspects of the _Fall Out Boy's_ cockpit when Patrick went to set down the drum and follow.

"No, not yet." Pete's voice sounded gravelly, coming from his own throat. But the dim light and the warm atmosphere had teased him into a peace he hadn't known since before his Companion training had begun in earnest. Somehow, his pillow-nest had managed to migrate closer to Patrick's stool than the couch and he gazed up at the mechanic with what he hoped was just the right mixture of hopeful and flattering to cover up the deep-seated yearning he couldn't quite explain. Because every time Patrick sang a verse, his voice and his music filled Pete and left him at the same time needing more.

Patrick peered at him over top of the edge of the drum.

"Just one more?" Pete had long ago abandoned the decadent pose that passed for "lounging" and sprawled on his stomach, head tilted at a weird angle to look up at Patrick. His limbs weren't artfully arranged to showcase the lithe, toned strength in his arms or the shapely curves of his calves and thighs. In fact, his legs were kicked out behind him and his feet turned in, two awkward, pigeon-toed sticks tangled in the roomy caftan he wore over his figure-hugging shirt and pants.

Patrick frowned, pursed his lips.

"Please?"

It was the "please" that did it. He could see Patrick's face soften. "One more."

"Just for me?"

Patrick looked away. "Especially for you." He scraped the beater over the skin of the bodhran in a surprisingly lively beat and began to sing. " _Pretty thing, fresh out of his teens, not ready for the world in a world of bad dreams..._ "

Pete didn't know whether to feel called out or turned on. Patrick's voice wrapped around him with an urgent sensuality and words cautioning Pete--or maybe himself--to watch out for cute boys, and the thin line between good ideas and bad. For the first time in maybe a decade, Pete felt heat creep up his neck and spread across his cheeks and bit his tongue in time to the lyrics Patrick sang. " _You'd better watch out for the cute boys, cute boys, cute boysss..._ " As the last notes faded to silence, Patrick set the drum aside and stood up.

Pete stared up at the diminutive mechanic and had the sudden urge to activate his Guild medallion for an emergency extraction. Patrick offered his hand to help Pete up and Pete took it, half of a mind to pull the siren down into his lap. And that's why I need the extraction. Whatever Mr. Island had planned for him couldn't be more dangerous than the stellar clouds swirling in Patrick's eyes. 

Patrick drew Pete to his feet and pulled him out of the lounge and into the corridor leading to the berths. "I'd best be getting some shut-eye. We'll come into Haven in the early morning and Joe turns into Captain Crankypants if he has to land the ship."

"And you?" Pete asked, his mouth moving before his brain fully engaged. "Do you wear crankypants in the mornings, or do you leave 'em crumpled at the end of the bed?"

Patrick snorted and it was the cutest damn thing Pete had ever heard. Before he knew what he was doing, he tugged Patrick's hand and knocked him off-balance. Pete wasn't thinking rationally when he pressed the mechanic up against the bulkhead and pressed his lips to Patrick's. Patrick's mouth gave under his--Pete knew what he was doing when it came to kissing--but it was Pete whose thoughts were spinning as he drowned in Patrick.

The mechanic pulled back. "Goodnight, Companion," he said, tugging on the brim of his hat. "Remember, you don't service the crew."

Pete brought his fingers to his lips, still tingling with the taste of Patrick and ale and smart, stinging comebacks.

But a part of him already knew there was no coming back from this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Guild protection is established in the Firefly 'Verse. Inara and other Companions can black-mark any client that mistreats them and that client will never be able to secure the services of a Registered Companion again, but that all's pretty useless when it comes to facing down a client in the here and now, so I've expanded a little and let technology give an assist to any Companion who finds themselves in the rare situation that their extensive training or formidable reputation can't handle.
> 
> Patrick is singing Soul Punk and Truant Wave songs in this chapter (since it's Soul Punk day when I'm posting this): "As long as I'm getting paid" and "Cute Girls" (with some adjustment to the lyrics because Pete)


	6. In the Alley It Ain't That Cheap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's how it is. Out in the Black, you do whatever it takes to keep flyin' and take your sanctuary when you find it. But when you're a little family in a big sea of space, Haven ain't the dirt under your feet, but the people in your heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's an apology at the end, I'm telling y'all now. Those of you familiar with these fandoms can probably smell this one coming. End notes will spoil you on the chapter, though. As always, if you got here by googling yourself, you know the drill.

Here's how it is. Out in the Black, you do whatever it takes to keep flyin' and take your sanctuary when you find it. But when you're a little family in a big sea of space, Haven ain't the dirt under your feet, but the people in your heart and the blood on their lips.

"Patrick, are you sure you're okay with this?"

"I don't much have a choice, do I?" Patrick adjusted his cowl and smoothed the front of the garb that covered him from neck to ankles. "Because who the ruttin' hell thought it'd be okay to let _Pete_ out on his own?"

"He said it was a standing appointment!" Dirty growled back at Patrick from the hallway outside his bunk. "Said it was Guild business and there was nowhere safer or more profitable than workin' on yer back in a monastery!"

Patrick rolled his eyes so hard he damn near lost his balance. "And you didn't think to question that concept? A _Registered Companion_ , doing _business_ , in a _monastery?_ "

"It's _Haven_ , Patrick!" Dirty almost whined. "The place is full of god-botherers and pacifists. What sort of trouble could Pete get into in the middle of that?"

Patrick flung his hands up in the air and turned his glare towards Joe's cabin. Behind the door of which, Joe was preparing his own set of threads for their impending away mission. "Captain, did you, or did you not just hear Dirty _stick his middle fingers_ in the eyes of the luck gods?"

Joe, for his part, sounded vaguely uneasy. "I...mighta said it might be okay for him to go out."

"Seriously?" Patrick's voice rose half an octave.

Joe's voice dropped in response. "He said he'd take Hurley with him! How was I to know the Cortex update would bring this kinda news?"

"Oh, because maybe there's a _Guild House_ on Haven?" Patrick didn't waste any more time arguing. "Joe, nobody rides the line between the cartels and the Alliance like you do, but you don't know Guild business from a horse's hind end! And if we've a mind to be honest here, I'm surprised as hell that Pete didn't see this coming, too!"

"Reckon maybe he did," Joe called back, in the midst of a series of grunts that sounded like he might need assistance. Patrick let him squirm. "No better sanctuary than a monastery on Haven."

"You think he's hiding out?" Patrick hadn't considered that. But it did make a certain sorta sense. Pete had insisted on using his credentials as a Registered Companion to get them a berth in the VIP area of the spaceport, and they'd cut line in the fueling queue a good six hours ahead of the rush. Still, that left them two hours before the fuel wagons reached their end of the spaceport and another two before they loaded up enough juice for a long trip. 

"I reckon Pete's got reasons for going to that monastery." Joe waited a beat. "Not everything anyone ever does has to make cold sense, Patrick. Maybe the man needed a little guidance from above."

Patrick huffed, his customary discomfort with the idea of folk throwing all their hopes on a long wait for a train that never showed up made all the more acute by his present wardrobe. "I'd have given him better guidance from right under my hat--don't leave the ship you're hiding out on!" It wasn't until they started downloading the Cortex update that Patrick discovered that Pete's use of his credentials triggered a summons from the local Guild house. House Chemical Romance was offering a powerful lot of money for the safe return of one Pete Wentz to the loving arms of his Guild. Alive, of course, but the bounty didn't specify unharmed.

Dirty rubbed his chin. "Pete's a grown man. He makes his choices, you know. And he ain't crew. Not like us."

Patrick didn't think about his actions. He had his hands around Dirty's throat before he realized what he was doing. "That ain't your call to make!"

Dirty's face went purple, then he lifted up his hands to break Patrick's grip. "All right, all right!" Dirty scowled. "Fact is, he ain't bled for this ship yet and we all have!"

"Doesn't matter," Joe cut him off from the cabin. "While he makes home on the Fall Out Boy, he's one of us. You just keep the Boy prepped for fueling. When the juice wagon gets here, don't make 'em waste time. We need to be out of dock sooner, rather than later."

Dirty stuck his jaw out. "I'll look after her, I got this." Dirty waved his hand and Patrick's belly curdled because that was pretty much a tell that Dirty didn't _got it_ at all. "You get the Companion, I guess."

Joe stumbled out of the Captain's cabin, tripping over the hem of a brown cassock tied with a simple rope. When he saw Patrick's garb, he burst out laughing. "Why, Sister Stump, I had no idea your chastity vows went so deep."

Patrick narrowed his eyes, set his jaw mulishly, and stomped down the ladder to the open airlock.

Joe followed, still griefing Patrick. "Sister Stump, sing us sinners something from that song book." His boots clanged on the ladder rungs. 

"Do you want me to shave the top of your head so you look like a proper Shepherd?" Patrick patted his robe at the waist, where underneath, he still wore his trousers and kept his belt buckled, knife secured at the small of his back along with a few multi-tools in easier reach.

He and Joe melted into the spaceport foot traffic, keeping their heads down and their hands folded as the pedestrian walkway became more crowded. At the other end of the docking way, an Alliance patrol boat hovered, waiting in the queue for an open berth, thank the 'Verse. On the ground, he and Joe side-stepped groups of travelers wheeling carts of fresh produce and mules loaded with luggage, interspersed with green and white Port Authority inspectors. Who could just stay focused on the lettuce and luggage, as far as Patrick was concerned, and not the battered-looking, humble freighter with the illegal mods parked at the end of the terminal.

"They don't make you do that anymore," Joe muttered. Nevertheless, he had pinned on a round prayin' hat he kept in his quarters, an old family relic from back when he had a family, supposedly passed down from ways dating all the way back to Earth-That-Was. Way he figured, it couldn't hurt to court some kindliness from any gods might be paying attention. "Which you'd know if that hymn book you're carryin' weren't just a hollowed out box for your guitar picks, _Sister Stump_."

Patrick kicked him. "It's also got a space for a slugthrower, so if you do not leave off this instant, Joe Trohman, I will smack you with this prayer book and then pistol-whip you with what's in it."

Joe snorted laughter, covering it up with a cough as Patrick kicked up an extra cloudy layer of dust as they approached the exit leading to the Haven monastery. His laughter died in his throat when he saw the Alliance officers at the gate. He spat out something between Chinese and English that meant nothing in either language, but the tone conveyed everything.

Patrick stiffened, thoughts of revenge on Joe evaporating in the afternoon sunlight. "Reckon we're respectable enough in our religiosity to make it past the Alliance?"

Joe narrowed his eyes. "Nope. But that ain't Alliance." He pointed upwards, where the Alliance craft hadn't yet landed. "Hike up that robe of yours, Sister. We're gonna pull a miracle out from under it."

**

Pete's sanctuary hadn't turned out to be the safe place he planned. Underneath his silks, he was sweating, just enough to make himself uncomfortable. His client, a longtime friend with a standing contract still valid in the Guild database, never showed for their rendezvous. And Pete, traitorously, was not sorry. The vague sense of betrayal that lodged somewhere behind his ribcage was foreign to him and he knew he needed to see to it--either examine it, or kill it while it was small enough to drown.

While Pete was left, tragically, at the altar, praying to a God he didn't believe in and examining feelings that had no place in a Companion's anywhere, seven bounty hunters swept in with targets painted on Pete and he knew he'd come to the end of his luck in more ways than one.

It got worse when the congregation filed into the church, looking for their weekly sermon, and the preacher emerged from the alcove with a gun pressed to his head and suddenly there was a Situation. With a lot of hostages. And Pete's personal honor about paying his own way suddenly became an expensive luxury instead of a civilized necessity. He said what he could, keeping his voice smooth and his tone non-threatening and the bandits' focus on himself instead of the hapless churchgoers and searched for an opening while he bided time he wasn't sure he had.

After half an hour, the time to bide seemed to be running short. The head bandit shuffled his feet. "I don't like the wait, Hollis. Where's that transport at?"

"Shut up! It's coming! My gal wouldn't let me down." Hollis, who'd been much kinder to Pete, argued with his boss in furious whispers while Pete carefully avoided looking in the rafters. He scanned the crowd, keeping his body still. The parishioners shifted in their seats in the rising midday heat and tried to keep children calm. Maybe he could use his charm to get the children out of the crossfire. Because Pete knew that there'd be some crossfire, sooner rather than later.

"Your gal belongs to the Guild! She's House Chemical Romance and you pay her for her time!"

"That ain't true at all! We're getting out--making this trade, him for her!"

"Is that what you think?" Pete asked. He kept his voice smooth and soft. "That the Guild will let your girl go in exchange for me?"

The bandit leader pushed the barrel of his gun into Pete's shoulder. "Keep your whore-lips shut!"

Pete's tongue darted out to moisten his "whore-lips" precisely because he knew the bandit leader would follow the gesture. "The Guild doesn't really release members in good standing." He flicked his gaze towards Hollis. "She'll only be yours until your scrip runs dry." 

Hollis shook his head. "Macey and I--we're leavin'. Goin' to collect your bounty and find a place on Ariel. Live the city life."

Pete met the other man's eyes. "The Guild doesn't let you go." He didn't have to fake sympathy for the poor bastard's dreams. "Just look at me."

"Shut up! Hollis, don't listen to him. Get your gal on the wave! We need that transport."

**

"You'd better be sure about this." Patrick fumbled in between the slits in his nun's robe and patted his cargo pocket. The small holdout was still tucked away and its haptic response buzzed twice, indicating two charges. Just enough, in case the slugthrower didn't work. The two of them had gone in over a low part of the wall at the back of the monastery to avoid the front gate, but the place seemed deserted except for the church itself. Which damn near guaranteed trouble in God's house. The only question remaining was what kind, and how central Pete was to said trouble. He took a careful, shaky step up onto Joe's back and rose on his tiptoes to peer into the window.

He didn't dare stay for more than a moment, but in that moment, he got a good glimpse of about thirty parishioners in suits, dresses, and fine hats, half a dozen brown cassocks, and the same amount of black and white wimples matching his own, and one pile of glittery scarves before ducking down again. One more tiptoe up to confirm what he'd seen and he dropped back down to the ground next to Joe. "Two in there, armed. Pete's at the altar next to the real Shepherd. Front rows are the clergy, half dozen each. About three hands' worth of townies, shiftin' and sweatin' in the pews."

Joe grunted. "Shoulda suspected right away. They'd have to be crooks to take me for a man of faith, no matter how fine a Sister you might make."

"Joe, I swear--" Patrick's hand bunched in his habit.

"Unbecomin' for a Sister, innit? Now I figure they've got everyone held up here. Easier to keep an eye on 'em all. Still, we ought to check and make sure. Five of them and three of us is okay odds, but an ambush or another body'd surely tip the scales." Joe lifted his head, listening on the wind. "Sit tight. I'mma have a look around, and you keep an eye on that shotgun wedding in there." He darted off, leaving Patrick to worry if indeed the bandits were fixing to force the Shepherd into saying vows over Pete.

_You can't marry a Companion against their will_ , he told himself.

_But you can marry a whore_. These clowns were here on behalf of the Guild House on Haven. Patrick's chest tightened. _Nobody wants to marry whores. Or Companions, for that matter. It ain't done. Pete will keep his freedom_. For all the good that'd do him if he couldn't get out from under the bandits. Though why he was more worried about Pete being hitched against his will right now, he couldn't say.

Thing about Patrick was that his mind tended to take apart a problem--any problem--the same way he took apart an engine, or a melody, or a snippet of song lyrics, and once broken down to its component pieces, Patrick tended to put that problem back together again the way he thought it ought to be. Giving meaning to the lyrics when arranged just so, playing the melodies and harmonies off each other in counterpoints and complements, or re-fitting parts so they rubbed where they ought and glided where they needed to make an engine hum.

Patrick's mind took apart this problem and put it back together again with the right amount of sense. Anybody looking to take Pete away from him or the _Fall Out Boy_ was up to no good, Guild-sanctioned, Alliance-approved, or Clandestine-ordered. Or God-ordained, even. Even if Pete hadn't yet shed blood for the _Fall Out Boy_ , what the Black had put together, let no man rend asunder without the wrath of Patrick Stump.

Having to wait for Joe was killing him. Every moment that passed meant a moment Pete's bounty hunters came closer. Patrick left the window and circled the main chapel. The back door was cracked open, letting in the breeze, but Patrick ducked out of the way when he saw the glint of iron at a hip. Guard on the back door. He kept going and paused at the corner leading to the front of the worship house, not wanting to make sudden moves to attract the trio at the gate. Through the partially opened front door, he could hear sounds of sniffling and crying from the trapped parishioners. A child whined fitfully and Patrick knew the longer they waited, the more likely the bandits would get itches in their britches and less tolerant of frightened people. He circled back around to the back door.

In a crouch, he waited, timing the man who paced back and forth. At the longest pause, Patrick slipped into the cool darkness of the vestibule when the man's back was turned. His nun's habit tangled in his legs as he rustled up to the man and clapped his hand over his mouth from behind.

The man was taller than Patrick, so it was a bit of a reach, but Patrick was used to being the little guy nobody expected. There were a lot of tricks a little guy had to pick up to stay upright out here, and one of them was knowing that you got one good shot. Mechanics and drumming both relied on a good wrench of the wrists at just the right time. that's exactly what Patrick did. His hands wrapped around the bandit's head and he snapped his wrists with a twist. The crunch was quieter than expected in the hushed peace of the nave.

The big'un crumpled in Patrick's arms. Patrick went down with him, easing the fall to a few rustles that didn't carry. Thank the Good Shepherd for guilt trips, he thought, as he dragged the heavy body into the confessional closet and quietly closed the door. He peered out and spotted the two other bandits, one with eyes on the congregation, the other with a heavy arm around Pete. For his part, the Companion looked composed and serene. His eyes hooded, he spoke in a soothing voice to his captor. When the bandit became agitated, Pete opened his hands, palms up, and glanced up at the ceiling, as if to pray in his manner.

Patrick followed his eyes out of habit and wished he didn't. Up in the rafters, Andy Hurley lay, stretched out along one of the roof beams as if he'd grown there. Patrick took stock of the situation. Joe outside, rounding up. Hurley above, waiting for time. Pete on the altar--and Patrick tried not to let that imagery go anywhere else--and Patrick--knew exactly where he needed to be.

All he could do now was wait. For divine intervention, or for Joe Trohman intervention.

Given a choice, Patrick was betting on Joe.

**

When the bounty hunters had entered the monastery, they'd rounded up the dozen or so permanent residents of the priesthood and crammed them into the front pews. Three of the company manned the gate from what Pete could spot before they closed the doors of the church, locking everyone inside. He glanced over towards the nuns. There seemed to be more black than he thought previously.

The leader and Hollis flanked Pete, waiting for the signal from their transport, while there was another man in the nave behind the altar and one standing near a woman desperately trying to calm her fussy children. The bandit near the children had his gun holstered, but he played with a long, wicked-looking knife and showed his teeth to the oldest child, who looked about seven and plenty old enough to get the threat. 

Pete glared at that one. "I'm over here, scumbag. I don't imagine the Hunter's guild takes too kindly to baby-killers, even in pursuit of the contract."

Hollis, behind Pete, motioned the scowling bandit away from the family. "Go check the gate for the mule."

The corners of Pete's mouth turned up. "Job not going according to plan?" He kept his voice low, meant only for Hollis. "You know the job's taking me back to the Guild against my will. What makes you think they're gonna let your girl go without sending another bunch of bounty hunters after you?"

Hollis made a low noise in the back of his throat. Pete could tell he was getting a mite twitchy. He backed off, because he knew better than to push a twitchy man too far. All he truly needed was doubt enough to stay his reflexes.

The third bandit had pulled away from the fretting mother and Pete could at least be thankful for that. But he paid for it when the leader hissed at Hollis. "Get your head back in the game! Don't listen to him, listen to me and get that girl of yours on the radio now! Barlett, get up here." The bandit leader's eyes searched the room. "And bring a nun." 

Barlett seized the nun at the end of the row, jerking her to her feet. The others made murmurs of protest but the nun in question bowed her head low, the veil of her wimple falling over her face. As Barlett pushed her towards the altar dais, Pete thought he saw a flash of gold from beneath the nun's veil.

The leader nodded. "Keep her close. And _gag_ him." He pointed to Pete.

Pete arched an eyebrow. "I charge extra for kinky." Keeping their attention on him might spare the poor sister. He flicked his eyes around again, noting this time that a shadow had crossed the bottom of the window near the front door. 

"Shut up! Hollis, you got that girl on the radio yet?"

Hollis shook his head. Pete could read the indecision in Hollis's body language and whispered a delicate nudge. "He doesn't trust your girl?"

The bandit leader shoved Pete's shoulder. "Didn't I say I had enough of you?" 

Pete smirked. Now this one, he could push. He _wanted_ to push. "That's not a yes."

The leader turned to Barlett. "Bring that sister over here. This one wants to shoot his mouth off, you run your knife through that nun."

The nun stumbled as the bandit dragged her up the shallow steps. Her feet seemed to be caught in the habit that was too long for her.

"That's real brave of you, going after a defenseless nun," Pete growled. "Come on, take me on instead. Or don't you think you can handle me?"

"You say another word and that nun's gonna pay. You think God'll take mercy on you or on her?"

"What's your good book say?" Pete's lip curled up into a snarl. " _Thou shalt not kill_."

The bandit backhanded him. His head snapped back and he tasted sharp and metallic blood. 

"God have mercy!" The head preacher cried and stumbled back.

Just then, the doors burst open and Captain Joe Trohman came striding through them, backlit by the sun like a dark avenging angel with his coattails flapping like wings and the righteous sidearm of justice held out and pointed towards Barlett and the nun.

"God's busy. He sent me." Joe pulled the trigger. "I'm all outta mercy."

By the time Pete's vision re-focused, the report of the pistol was echoing off the rafters and Barlett stared down at a bloody red flower blooming in his chest.

Beside Pete, Hollis shouted. "No!" He lunged for Pete, but Pete was ready. He sank to the floor and rolled forward, hitting his shoulder on the low risers separating the altar from the congregation.

"Not in God's House!" The preacher shouted while the other nuns rose to their feet and the congregation started to move in panic formation.

The bandit leader cocked his gun, pointed directly at Pete. "Freeze, whore."

The nun rose from her crouch. " _You_ freeze." It came out much deeper--and more masculine--than anybody expected. The dusty sunlight shone on a small silver holdout weapon held directly to the bandit leader's temple and Patrick Stump's sideburns gleaming golden on his cheeks.

Joe strode forward. "Seems we got ourselves a situation here with a powerful lot of innocent people who'd like it a lot better if they didn't have to scrub your brains out of their church clothes." He shrugged. "But they might not care one way or the other."

The bandit leader twitched and the nun lifted her head. _His_ head. Patrick glowed softly in the dusty sun coming down from the stained glass window, illuminating his friendly smile and his cherubic expression as he spoke. "Maybe God wouldn't strike you down for hitting a whore. But I ain't God and he ain't a whore and if you so much as twitch I swear by the wings on my wimple that _I will end you_."

The bandit had at least a head on Patrick, but that didn't seem to matter to either of them, what with the holdout pressed against the bandit's temple. Patrick, in all his blasphemous glory, sideburns sticking out of his wimple, an enraged penguin the likes of which Pete only saw in books. But an enraged penguin with a blaster pressed to the temple of a man a head taller than him, and fury on his face fit to melt a polar ice cap.

With the dusty sunlight turning his skin gold and lighting up his eyes, Patrick went from penguin to nun to angel somewhere in the crooked parts of Pete's brain, then spread directly into his heart.

Then the bandit leader's hand twitched, and Patrick blew the leader's brains out on the altar.

**

The head preacher waved his arms and pleaded with the parishioners to stay calm while half of them were on their feet and crawling over each other to get to the exit.

Patrick felt honestly regretful that the parishioners had to witness frontier justice, but he couldn't spare much more than a little sympathy. He turned his holdout onto the remaining bandit. "You want to meet God, too?"

Hollis shook his head. "I just wanted to settle down with my girl."

Joe grabbed his arms. "Find a new girl, and find a new world. I ever see your face again, I'll be the last thing you see."

Patrick glanced at Joe. "The three at the gate?"

Joe wrinkled his nose. "A complication."

Andy Hurley dropped down from the rafters. "Not anymore." He busied himself with breaking down the long rifle and its laser scope. He glanced up at the window above the doors leading out. "Might want to go out first and clear the bodies before the good folk get a look at what's left."

"One in the confession room," Pete said with a nervous glance back to the doorway behind the altar. "Be careful--"

"Nope," Patrick said.

"What have you done to our place of worship?" The preacher motioned to the sobbing woman and her children, the whimpering nuns, and the shell-shocked congregation. "You've brought violence to the house of God!" He gaped at Patrick. "And wearing the garb of his holy sisters!"

Patrick scowled from under the wimple. "I reckon we stopped a hell of a lot more violence than we brought." He lowered his holdout and stalked towards the back. "Bless me, father for I have sinned. I left a dead guy in your confessional. Sorry about the mess." He shoved through the doors and into the sunlight.

**

Pete barely glanced at Andy before running out the door after Patrick. "Patrick? Patrick, _hey!_ " He trotted to catch up to the stocky nun stomping across the monastery grounds. "Patrick, I'm sorry! Please!"

Patrick stopped and turned on him. "You're _sorry?_ _You're_ sorry?" His voice rose in agitation. Pete cringed. Patrick stuck his chin out, his veil fluttering around his face. "What the hell are _you_ sorry for?"

"Everything." Pete opened his arms to encompass the monastery. "I screwed up. Thought I'd find sanctuary. Instead I brought trouble and death and blood." His arms fell to his sides.

Patrick's teeth showed in a parody of a smile. "No, _they_ brought the death and blood on themselves. I just delivered it."

Pete lowered his head. "I didn't mean to make you--"

"You didn't make me." Patrick's tone was curt, and Pete felt more and more like his training, his nature, his ability to read people were all failing him when it came to the _Fall Out Boy's_ mechanic.

Pete shifted direction, taking shelter in the shade of the nuns' dormitory. Patrick followed his lead. Pete felt all the nerves he squashed down in the hostage situation come rushing back and bring their friends. "Patrick, I--" He had no words. For all his poetry and silver-tongued seductions, he couldn't force anything out past the desperate need to say, _"I love you,"_ to the short mechanic with the siren's voice and the nun's wimple because in his heart, he worried that a Companion could never say those words and have them be true. Even when they were. He sucked in air that filled his senses with Patrick, overlaid with the tang of blood--the bandit's and his own--and found some lame words that weren't near the ones he was bursting to say. "I should have stayed out of sight. Read the situation better."

Patrick shook his head. "Captain told you it was okay for you to go, and that's on him, and we will have _words_."

"Those words should be gettin' the hell out of here first." Joe and Andy, speaking of the devil and his sidekick, came trotting up. "Out of the frying pan and into the fire," Joe said, pointing upward. "I just got a wave from Dirty. Clandestine's expecting a bounty claim from out of the monastery. Their transport is on the way and the spaceport's swarming with hired guns."

" _Da Shiong La Se La Ch'wohn Tian!_ " Patrick spat.

"Ew," Pete muttered.

"That's exactly what's gonna rain down on us if we don't hightail it back to the _Fall Out Boy_ right now," Andy said. 

Joe tilted his head. "Those Clandestine goons are gonna be lookin' for a Companion so we best be giving them nothing but nuns to look at. Reckon you oughta get yourself un-gussied, Pretty Boy, and right quick, unless we want to take a bath in that elephant shitstorm Patrick called for."

When Patrick first emerged from the _Fall Out Boy's_ spare berths wearing the nun's habit, Joe had laughed so hard he slapped a knee twice. When Pete slipped out of the nuns' dormitory, Patrick wanted to take holy vows and do unholy things. It was gorram _unfair_ of the man to make even a nun's habit look filthy.

"Sister Naughty." Joe nodded to Pete. "And Sister Not-So-Nice." He winked at Patrick, who sent him a single-digit salute in response. The four of them double-timed out of the monastery, side-stepping the main gate where the priests were wrapping the bodies of the bandits in sheets, in favor of climbing the wall in the small orchard.

But they'd underestimated the popularity of the faithful on the planet of the faithful, and they couldn't make it three blocks before being stopped for a blessing here, or a word of comfort there, or a passage from the good book. Patrick had to keep his good book carefully tilted so that no one could see that it was a hollowed-out storage box for guitar picks and his backup holdout blaster.

That was also how Patrick and Pete ended up performing an impromptu baptism over a powerful-ugly baby held by a helpless-looking couple with naught but two trunks and a tired looking burro, surrounded by elderly women in shawls in the middle of the spaceport thoroughfare while hired gunslingers wearing the red and black Clandestine colors swarmed around them. Pete bent over and kissed the baby--little half-chunk was kinda cute in its ugliness--as the foot soldiers passed, and he murmured, "Let your love be free on the streets, but never be cheap in the alleys." He didn't lift his head until the Clandestine squad had passed.

"What was that?" One of the grannies said. "I didn't hear you, Sister."

Patrick cleared his throat loudly. "Uh..."

Pete grinned from behind his pilfered wimple. "Special message for just the little nipper's ears only."

"Hey!" Grannie said, peering at him. "You're frightfully manly for a sister."

Patrick latched onto Pete's arm. "Gotta go, Grannie. Blessed be!"

Together, they broke into a run. Patrick's legs kept getting tangled in the habit's hem and Pete pulled ahead, but kept a firm grip on Patrick's arm. They kicked up enough dust behind them to create a cloud that tracked them all the way back to the _Fall Out Boy's_ sheltering cargo ramp, leaving plenty of signs for the Clandestine troops to follow.

**

Dirty was already breaking the fuel lines away from the wagon. "We only just got started!"

"Get in the ship," Patrick yelled. He spared a single glance towards Pete and saw the courtesan duck into the palanquin and turned to Dirty. "He's bled for the _Boy_. He's ours now. Are we clear?"

Dirty nodded quickly.

Satisfied that Pete would be safe, Patrick double-timed it up the stairs and through the gangways to the cockpit where Joe was already prepping the ship for launch.

"Fuel ain't gonna get us far." Joe's tone was tense and tight as Patrick's expression as his hands moved over the controls. 

He primed the engines for atmo flight. "If it gets us out of Clandestine's claws in the next ten minutes, it's all good."

Joe checked the readouts. "We need a soft landing in a friendly port in a short time. What's on the map?"

Patrick glanced down as he felt the docking clamps pull away. "Oh, you're not gonna like it."

"Would I like it worse than being taken down by Clandestine?" 

Patrick grimaced. "Oh you'd like it better. But would you survive it?"

"Just tell me where to go."

"Go to Hell, Joe." Patrick glanced at his captain. 

"Hell?" Joe's face drained of color. "Patrick I can't--she'll eat me alive and I'll die smilin' about it!"

Patrick set his mouth in a thin line. "Better get busy livin' before you get busy dyin' then. Fuel's in short supply around here. We gotta go to Hell through the direct route, which means we gotta go through Reaver space to get there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep. SorryNotSorry at all, really. I had to. At first, I thought, "naah, too obvious," but then the Fandom Oh-Gawds came down and visited the Wrath, from High Atop the Thing and said, "Thou Shalt Not Avoid This Because It Pleaseth Us" and so I had to.
> 
> If you're new to Fall Out Boy, go find the video for "I Don't Care" and enjoy a little iconic Nun!Patrick and Nun!Pete as they wreak mayhem in a convenience store. Afterwards, feel free to have a personal religious schism--you won't be the first.
> 
> If you're not familiar with Firefly, the episode is "Our Mrs. Reynolds" and the quote--the entire punch line I built this whole chapter around, is here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YArfb1gCcBg but you really ought to watch the whole episode--it's a source for probably 35% of the extremely quotable quotes out of the whole series, including the origin of the Special Hell we're all going to at the end of this ride.
> 
> TL;DR: The intersection of Fall Out Nuns and Captain Mal and his pretty floral bonnet came about through Divine Mandate and I have no excuse and there will be no salvation.


	7. Setting (In a Honeymoon)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's how it is. Money talks and bullshit walks. For as long as she's spoken via a single credit to her own name, Madame Marie would have let that credit speak for Captain Joe Trohman, of the blue eyes and wild nebula hair, because while her money talked, his bullshit made her too weak in the knees to walk in any direction except where he wanted to lead her.
> 
> And sure as the red sun orbited the white, Captain Joe Trohman and his bullshit always led her into trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This episode is a two-parter, because I'm self-indulgent and this chapter was too fun to write. And I needed a tiny break from the shoot-em-up fest of last episode. And if you got here by googling your old man, I hope I did you justice.

Here's how it is. Money talks and bullshit walks and out here away from the Core worlds, you get the first by slinging the second, until you've got enough of the first that you don't have to put up with any of the second, and Madame Marie had put up with more than enough of the second to last several lifetimes, so when she saw the carbon-scored hull of the flying dumpster piloted by one of the most creative bullshit artists to ever fly the spaces between gravity wells, well, she should have let her money talk and tell him to take his bullshit and keep walking with it.

But here's how it is. For as long as she's spoken via a single credit to her own name, Madame Marie would have let that credit speak for Captain Joe Trohman, of the blue eyes and wild nebula hair, because while her money talked, his bullshit made her too weak in the knees to walk in any direction except where he wanted to lead her.

And sure as the red sun orbited the white, Captain Joe Trohman and his bullshit always led her into trouble.

She stood outside the manicured border that led to her empire's crown jewel and main structure, facing an empty landing pad where no ship would ever dare land, save one. "No. _Hell_ , no. And absolutely, extremely, pointedly, and inarguably _NO_." Marie smoothed one gloved hand over the beaded bodice of her figure-skimming gown and twitched one of the draped folds of the bustle until it revealed the little slit to her inner pouch, where she drew out a pair of spectacles with lenses tinted deep blue. She slipped the specs on and scanned the ship to count five heat signatures. "You said one, Joe! Not two, not three, and _five is right out!_ "

She adjusted the feathered hat on her dark coif, snapped the matching indigo parasol open, and thumbed the switch that would prime the energy pistol in the handle, should she need to emphasize her point. Which she did, by pointing said pistol at the slowly lowering cargo ramp of the Fall Out Boy. "Joe Trohman, you are not to set _one single foot_ on my mudball unless it's to drop to your knees and beg my forgiveness."

But the sight that greeted her was not the wild-haired reprobate who traversed the underpinnings of her skirts with as much familiarity as she rifled through his--frequently empty--pockets.

Marie's mouth dropped open when she saw the glitter-shot silken robes of the exotic creature before her, hit light-headed by the cloud of sandalwood and incense that rolled out of the cargo bay as a real, live Registered Companion paused--and posed--at the top of the ramp with one hip shot to the side and the opposite arm lifted dramatically to allow the tails of his silken robes to flutter in the sudden, scented breeze. "Blessings be upon you, kind lady. May your endeavors find deep pockets and satisfied customers lulled by the eternal spring of your uncommon beauty. I'm Pete."

Marie's flat-footed surprise was only broken by a pair of much-less-silk-covered arms going around her waist from behind, and the familiar tickle of an unshaven cheek next to a pair of warm lips murmuring in her ear, even as rough, callused, un-scented hands closed around the one of hers that held her pistol. "Miss me, baby?"

Marie allowed one single shiver to travel up and down her nerve endings--for science!--then drove the hardest elbow she could muster back into his solar plexus. "I thought I told you you'd only come back to Santo on your knees, Joe Trohman."

**

To his credit, Joe did drop to his knees, and buried his face in her skirts for good measure. "Marie, sweet thing, you know I wouldn't come by unless I was desperate. And I am--desperate for you. Won't you give me just a few grams of that heart of yours?"

Marie grabbed him by the face, her fingerless haptic gloves only sending a _tiny_ shock through the palm sensors and into the tip of his nose, the apples of his cheeks, and his chin. "You got a lot of nerve, bringing a Registered Companion here! Are you trying to start a war?" Marie twitched her wrist and the fan that was looped about it snapped open with a little electro-pulse ripple across the graphene mesh surface. "Dan, I'm going to need cover for a back-door off-load." She snapped the fan closed and peered down at Joe, telling herself that this time-- _this time_ \--those wide, ocean-blue, summer-sky eyes would not do _a single thing_ to weaken her knees.

And to her credit, they did not. It was his crooked rogue's smile that melted her insides. And that new bump on the bridge of his nose along with a fading scar that said he'd gotten into Mischief.

"Right away, Madame," came the tinny response from the speaker of her ear-bob, vibrating against her jawbone to transmit the sound. "Three, two, one--"

"We go live," said Marie, who pushed Joe backwards so he sprawled in the dirt, then stepped over him. She tossed a glance back over her shoulder. "Come on, then, you lot. Companion, you're with me."

The Companion glided up to her, his kohl-lined eyes gleaming with mirth and admiration. "Madame, the honor's all mine."

Marie glanced back and jerked her head at the rest of the crew. Oh good, that sweet boy with the beautiful voice still drew breath to pass over those golden vocal cords. She lifted an eyebrow at Dirty, who was living up to his name, and made a mental note to count the silver. "Mechanic, you too."

"But--" Joe protested. 

Marie rounded on him. "You walk into Hell on your own if you want me, Joe Trohman. Back door, and wipe your gorram feet. My place is civilized and respectable." She pointed towards the cargo dock of the main building, the large door sealed shut, but a small, person-sized panel slowly swinging open.

Joe staggered to his feet. "I'd dance through the front gate if you want," he muttered.

Marie smirked. One day, she'd hold him to that. And sell tickets. But not today. Today, she was the Lady of the House and she strode forward, the Companion on her arm as the short mechanic with the voice struggled to catch up.

Here's how it is. When a blue-eyed, silver-tongued rogue you're sweet on brings you trouble, if you really want to show the rest of the 'Verse your power, you parade that trouble right through the front door and _Mah Jung Wah_ out the back entrance.

"My lady, while I can't wait to get you alone--"

Marie tapped the Companion on the lips, silencing him. "Pete, is it?" She waited for his nod. "Sneaking someone like you into a back door would be _Bu Kuh Nuhn_. The only way you'd go unnoticed is in the center of a stage, so here's how it is, sweet thing. This part of Santo is no friend to your Guild, and I reckon Joe wouldn't have brought you here unless he was looking for just such a situation. We run a bit of a...free market for negotiable affection here, and your presence in the back would raise more eyebrows than skirts on a good night. And that bounty on your head don't make you look any less tempting to folk here to make their scratch and not just spend it on sweet words and sassy mouths."

The ginger-haired mechanic, whose face was beginning to complement his hair, cleared his throat. "Madame Marie, we can most certainly be discreet--"

Her laughter rang out in silvery peals. "Your proximity to the Captain should have taught you better, young man."

"But I'm...older than...Joe," Patrick mumbled plaintively.

Marie pretended not to hear him. "We deal in secrets here, and anyone not looking to be noticed is going to stand out. So the Companion is coming in the front door under the escort of his pretty young, but naive, friend here as honored guest. I, in my magnanimity, will forgive your naive client for failing to realize that the Guild avoids this place. Wait here three minutes, and then come in and go along." She turned her gaze to the mechanic and smiled. "It's good to see you again, Patrick."

The boy ducked his head, making him look even younger. "Yes, Madame Marie. It's--it's nice to see you again, too. Joe--"

She snapped her fan. "I am _not_ discussing what I'm aiming to do to Joe Trohman at this moment or in this company," she said sharply. Then her voice softened. "I don't want your innocent little ears to burn."

The Companion snorted at that and Marie's eyebrow went up. But Pete offered her an intimate smile that revealed absolutely nothing, then hauled Patrick to his side in an exaggerated gesture. "Oh, darling, you've shown me such a magical time already." He glanced down at the mechanic and Marie would have to be a dead woman not to feel the unspoken exchange between the two.  "And you truly do know the best people."

Oh, if only this were a social call and not a Complication in her peacefully larcenous life. The poor mechanic. Marie almost felt bad at the way his face went positively radioactive. She winked at the Companion. "Three minutes," she said. "Occupy yourselves until then." She entered the building through the majordomo's entrance and did a quick scan of the casino's front lobby.

Men and women in finery clustered in the waiting area, drifting in and out of quieter side parlors or queuing up at the ornately-barred windows of the credit exchange. A low-risered side stage held a piano, unoccupied for the time being. Music and the sound of clinking coins, tinkling bells, and distant cheers was both present and piped in from the main gaming hall. The red door to the left, with the pink light shining softly beside it, was open and the light was on. Not the greatest timing, as Marie did not want to field questions from any of the independent girls or boys loitering for potential clients according to their arrangement with the main hotel and casino. Meanwhile, the blue door to the right, with the blue lamp next to it, was closed, and the lamp was dark. No one from the...informational...side of the business would be present for this, at least. Of the two, the cortex hackers selling information about her new guests could do them more harm in the long run, but the joygirls and joyboys could start a mess of trouble right in the here and now, and only one of those problems would dirty her skirts.

She turned to face the door just as it opened and Joe's two friends came stumbling in. The greeters at the doorway handed them each a long-stemmed flute of champagne and opened the decorative, waist-high inner gates beneath the main arch (which discreetly scanned for weapons and cheat-tech of all kinds, with readouts going to the majordomo's box to the side).

The mechanic would have been startling on his own, for his choice of coveralls topped by a ridiculous cardigan sweater, and the cap that had surely seen better days prior to it having been sucked into and spit out of an inertial drive's fan assembly. But standing him next to the Companion--who in spite of his efforts to look suitably un-Companion like, radiated that whole "precious property of the Companions' Guild" aura. Marie sighed, feeling eyes on her back from the patrons closest to her and hearing a visible ripple of hush traveling through the lobby.

She straightened her shoulder. "Young patron, it's so nice to see you again, and your lovely new husband, as radiant as ever."

Patrick sputtered, mid-sip of his champagne. "Ah, er, I, uh--"

The Companion more than made up for it. He placed an arm around Patrick and hauled the shorter man up against his side. "We're so grateful to be spending our honeymoon here at--" Pete trailed off, "--at your impressive and fine establishment."

Patrick still fought for breath, his face redder than the door behind her. Her eyes widened. If even one of the Independents caught a glimpse of Pete, there'd be war.

Pete seemed to read her accurately--how many of his clients had taken him to Core world gaming tables as an ornament and found themselves with an unfair advantage, she wondered. Pete fluttered his hands around his throat and shifted one of his scarves to cover the embedded Guild medallion just below the hollow of his throat.

Marie nodded approvingly. "Welcome, Gentlemen." She turned and made the gesture as extravagant as the Lady of the Manor ought to make her extravagant gestures, because otherwise, she wouldn't be the Lady, would she? She flicked her fan open again, thumbing the switch to activate the multimedia accompaniment. "Welcome to Hell!"

The lights in the lobby flickered and flared to life. The water features decorating the walls burst upwards, turning from quiet bubbling waterfalls to frothing, aquatically-lit fountain sprays, catching light and throwing it back in a thousand different directions. The background music swelled and burst at her proclamation, along with canned applause and a shower of harmless sparks from the chandeliers raining down on her. "Round of applause for our newlyweds, ladies and gentlemen!"

"Follow me, boys, to the most deliciously dirty honeymoon suite found on Santo. As we like to say on our little piece of paradise, this is no place to bring the family but it's a great place to start one the old-fashioned way!" She dropped a saucy wink to a gentleman in the queue for the cashier and helped herself to a glass of champagne from a nearby table and swept through the double doors leading to the hotel, confident that the Companion would drag his slack-jawed plus-one through the lobby in an appropriately ostentatious way. 

The applause from the scattered patrons gave way to a Complication as the clapping stopped and the clinking began. The patrons clinked their chips against the sides of their glasses, harder and harder, louder and louder, until the whole room sounded like someone'd dumped a sack full of marbles into an aluminum downspout and every eye was on them. Marie hissed over her shoulder. "They're wantin' you two to kiss."

"What?" Patrick stumbled, his knuckles white around the champagne flute. 

The patrons began to chant. "Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!"

Pete's grin widened enough to eclipse the sun. "It's a newlywed tradition in the Core worlds." The predatory glee in his voice rivaled the worst and best moments of Marie's own mercenary streak.

"Well?" She prompted. "What're you waitin' for? Kiss him. Now." Her last command was delivered through a clench-toothed grin as she noticed the patrons begin to notice.

Pete swooped in for the kill.

The cheer went up and the patrons burst back into applause. Patrick's limbs flailed, strong at first, then slowly weakening until he plucked feebly at the scarves covering Pete's shoulders. Marie bit her lip and turned away before her own blush could work itself up from her decolletage, because she was _not_ thinking of a certain ship's captain she kept meaning to truss up and have delivered to her private quarters. 

And the joygirls and joyboys turned away from the spectacle, bored again. None of her independent contractors gave them so much as a second glance. Because Madame Marie damn well knew what she was doing. This was her Hell, and she knew it well.

**

Patrick was going to spontaneously combust and, 'Verse willing, he'd take Pete with him, and maybe every witness to his humiliation in the gaming saloon as he could. As soon as his head came back from whatever drugged trip Pete had sent him on. Poison lips. He had to have poisoned his lips. Companions did have access to such things, for when clients got out of hand. 

Or a poison tongue, which slid in and out between his lips in light, persuasive flutters. Carrying some sort of neurotoxin that made Patrick's limbs up and decide to stop listening to his brain altogether. Instead, they obeyed some sort of wave from another galaxy, that told Patrick to thread his fingers through Pete's hair.

Through the ringing in his ears and the applause from patrons, Patrick came back planetside with considerably less oxygen when Pete finally let him go. An unrepentant grin lit Pete's face like his own personal spotlight. And his eyes crinkling in that way that wasn't quite as styled for maximum attractiveness, but nevertheless had Patrick's head in a right flurry.

He only got set right when Madame Marie gave him a not-so-subtle shove through the doors to the hotel area. Patrick had to work on adjusting his breathing the entire time they took, getting into the lift and up to the penthouse and in the-- _Ai Yah Tien Ah_ \--Honeymoon Suite. Madame Marie waved her lace and satin wrist cuff at the door sensor and the double doors glided open. Sudden music blared from some speaker somewhere and Patrick wanted to sink right through the floor.

Pete, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying this. Without warning, he swept Patrick up in his arms, bridal-style, and swanned right over the threshold. "I've never been a happier bride!"

"Put me down right now, you _Sah Gua!_ " Patrick slapped at Pete's shoulders, kicking his legs until the other man staggered against the divan in front of them. He stumbled over the back of the furniture and Patrick tumbled onto the couch, limbs flailing.

"You two!" Madame Marie snapped her fingers. "No horseplay! These are fine pieces of furniture!"

Pete tumbled over the back of the couch after Patrick. "As am I, Madame." He grinned up at Marie.

Marie, for her part, swept away from the living area and towards a spiraling staircase winding around a pole at the back of the room. The living area was in a sunken pit with a cathedral ceiling and tall windows looking out onto a private patio walled away from the rest of the resort's landscaped grounds. The kitchenette, near the spiral stairs, spread out beneath an oddly-sloped ceiling that marked the floor of a loft.

"Oh, hey Patrick!" Joe's voice came from somewhere above. Patrick looked up and realized the reason for the slope of the ceiling. It was the underside curve of a wide champagne glass. A wide champagne glass the size of a bathtub. A bathtub in which Captain Trohman of the Fall Out Boy currently lounged--presumably buck-nekkid. 

As Patrick's eyes widened, Joe lifted a miniature version of the champagne glass in which he soaked--the small one presumably full of champagne and not bubbly, scented bath water.

While Patrick stared in horror, Pete stared in equal measures of delight. "Madame, are you in possession of a champagne glass honeymoon hot tub?"

Marie's answer floated down from where she made her way up the wrought-iron stairs. "I am, in fact, in possession of _two_ champagne glass honeymoon hot tubs, Companion. This one--and what's in it--are _mine_. Yours is the suite next door."

Patrick caught Joe's eye. His hair was even crazier with the humidity of the heated water. "Captain?"

Joe was also very naked in that bathtub and only the pinkish bubbles covered his dignity...or rather, where his dignity would be, if the Captain were in possession of any dignity. Patrick averted his eyes.

"It's okay," Joe said. "Go on out to the patio and into the adjoining room. The Madame and I--"

"Will be...negotiating the cost of a solution to your predicament." Marie finished for him.

Patrick squinted up at Joe again. While he knew Madame Marie had a special closeness with the Captain, he also knew that Madame Marie had a special closeness with a number of weapons on her person.

But Madame Marie made a shooing motion with her hands. "Go on, now, sweet things, and let the Captain and I get...reacquainted with the local exchange rates." She glided up the spiral staircase leading to the top of the champagne glass, peeling off her gloves as she went. 

Patrick beat a hasty retreat and figuring that, while Madame Marie might be specially close to many interesting and deadly weapons, she probably couldn't hide 'em when she wasn't wearing her frock. He ducked out the doors leading to the private patio and found the adjoining room, Pete hard on his heels.

"Tricky, did you see that? I reckon all those had been lost or demolished years ago, but the Captain's special lady friend has got herself two!"

Patrick entered the adjoining room and stared up. "Two," he said faintly.

Pete clapped his hands in glee. "Oh, Patrick, we're going to have such fun here!"

Patrick's tummy curdled at the thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two story champagne-glass hot-tub is REAL, y'all! I have BEEN THERE! Resorts in the Poconos in Pennsylvania, USA, were the bee's knees from the 1950's through the 1980's (think "Dirty Dancing" and you get the idea). Many of them were "couple's resorts" or "honeymoon hotels" that featured suites like heart-shaped hot tubs, heart-shaped beds (that vibrated!) and the infamous Champagne Towers. Sadly enough, the heyday of this "land o' love" is long past and many of the hot spots that once boasted the likes of Wayne Newton and Sid Caesar as entertainment are either limping along on nostalgia, irony, and "retro" dated decor, or have fallen into complete disrepair and abandonment (and if you catch the pics, some are downright creepy). But I couldn't resist including it because if Captain Joe Trohman of the Fall Out Boy were ever to get himself pinned by a smart lady who knows her way around a rogue's heart, that lady would have herself a honeymoon suite suitable for keepin' the Captain in the manner of which he'd very much like to become accustomed, and that would include a two-story champagne glass hot tub, I reckon. ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, chapter titles are from '27' although they're mixed up. Meh.


End file.
